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THE  INDIAN  LILY 


The  Indian  Lily 


AND   OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

HERMANN   SUDERMANN 

Author  of  "The  Song  of  Songs" 


TRANSLATED    BY 

LUDWIG  LEWISOHN,  M.A. 


NEW  YORK 

B.    W.    HUEBSCH 

1912 


Copyright,  1911 

By  B.  W.  HUEBSCH 

All  rights  reserved 

Fiist  printing,  November,  1911 
Second  printing,  November,  1911 
Third  printing,  February,  1912 


#« 


J 


FHnted  in  U.  S.  A. 


'^^^'^^^'"y!  ""!>!'■  '   '  ■  ^?^''-?T"""pgS'^*'"* 


^ 


^ 


15 

4 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


!^    The  Indian  Lily 7 

The  Purpose .  85 

The  Song  op  Death 145 

The  Victim 185 

Autumn 205 

Merry  Folk       . 247 

Thea .  257 


* 


THE   INDIAN   LILYi 


THE  INDIAN  LILY 


I. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
Herr  von  Niebeldingk  opened  the  iron  gate  and 
stepped  into  the  front  garden  whose  wall  of 
blossoming  bushes  separated  the  house  from  the 
street. 

The  sun  of  a  May  morning  tinted  the  greyish 
walls  with  gold,  and  caused  the  open  window- 
panes  to  flash  with  flame. 

The  master  directed  a  brief  glance  at  the  sec- 
ond story  whence  floated  the  dull  sound  of  the 
carpet-beater.  He  thrust  the  key  rapidly  into 
the  key-hole  for  a  desire  stirred  in  him  to  slip 
past  the  porter's  lodge  unobserved. 

"I  seem  almost  to  be — ^ashamed!"  he  mur- 
mured with  a  smile  of  self -derision  as  a  similar 
impulse  overcame  him  in  front  of  the  house  door. 

But  John,  his  man — a  dignified  person  of 
fifty — ^had  observed  his  approach  and  stood  in 

9 


10  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

the  opening  door.  The  servant's  mutton-chop 
whiskers  and  admirably  silvered  front-lock  con- 
trasted with  a  repressed  reproach  that  hovered 
between  his  brows.    He  bowed  deeply. 

"I  was  delayed,"  said  Herr  von  Niebeldingk, 
in  order  to  say  something  and  was  vexed  because 
this  sentence  sounded  almost  like  an  excuse. 

"Do  you  desire  to  go  to  bed,  captain,  or  would 
you  prefer  a  bath?" 

"A  bath,"  the  master  responded.  "I  have 
slept  elsewhere." 

That  sounded  almost  like  another  excuse. 

"I'm  obviously  out  of  practice,"  he  reflected 
as  he  entered  the  breakfast-room  where  the  silver 
samovar  steamed  among  the  dishes  of  old 
Sevres. 

He  stepped  in  front  of  the  mirror  and  re- 
garded himself — not  with  the  forbearance  of  a 
friend  but  the  keen  scrutiny  of  a  critic, 

"Yellow,  yellow.  ..."  He  shook  his  head. 
"I  must  apply  a  curb  to  my  feelings." 

Upon  the  whole,  however,  he  had  reason  to  be 
fairly  satisfied  with  himself.  His  figure,  despite 
the  approach  of  his  fortieth  year,  had  r«nained 
slender  and  elastic.  The  sternly  chiselled  face, 
surrounded  by  a  short,  half-pointed  beard, 
showed  neither  flabbiness  nor  bloat.  It  was  only 
around  the  dark,  weary  eyes  that  the  experiences 
of  the  past  night  had  laid  a  net-work  of  wrinkles 


THE    INDIAN   LILY  11 

and  shadows.  Ten  years  ago  pleasure  had  driven 
the  hair  from  his  temples,  but  it  grew  energeti- 
cally upon  his  crown  and  rose,  above  his  fore- 
head, in  a  Mephistophelian  curve. 

The  civilian's  costume  which  often  lends  re- 
tired officers  a  guise  of  excessive  spick-and-span- 
ness  had  gradually  combined  with  an  easier  bear- 
ing to  give  his  figure  a  natural  elegance,  To  be 
sure,  six  years  had  passed  since,  displeased  by  a 
nagging  major,  he  had  definitely  hung  up  the 
dragoon's  coat  of  blue. 

He  was  wealthy  enough  to  have  been  able  to 
indulge  in  the  luxury  of  that  displeasure.  In 
addition  his  estates  demanded  more  rigorous 
management.  .  .  .  From  Christmas  to  late 
spring  he  lived  in  Berlin,  where  his  older  brother 
occupied  one  of  those  positions  at  court  that 
mean  httle  enough  either  to  superior  or  inferior 
ranks,  but  which,  in  a  certain  social  set  depen- 
dent upon  the  court,  have  an  influence  of  ines- 
timable value.  Without  assuming  the  part  of 
either  a  social  lion  or  a  patron,  he  used  this  in- 
fluence with  sufficient  thoroughness  to  be  popu- 
lar, even,  in  certain  cases,  to  be  feared,  and  be- 
longed to  that  class  of  men  to  whom  one  always 
confides  one's  difficulties,  never  one's  wife. 

John  came  to  announce  to  his  master  that  the 
bath  was  ready.  And  while  Niebeldingk 
stretched  himself  lazily  in  the  tepid  water  he  let 


12  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

his  reflections  glide  serenely  about  the  delightful 
occurrence  of  the  past  night. 

That  occurrence  had  been  due  for  six  months, 
but  opportunity  had  been  lacking.  "I  am  close- 
ly watched  and  well-known,'*  she  had  told  him, 
"and  dare  not  go  on  secret  errands."  .  .  .  Now 
at  last  their  chance  had  come  and  had  been  used 
with  clever  circumspectness.  .  .  .  Somewhere 
on  the  Polish  boundary  lived  one  of  her  cousins 
to  whose  wedding  she  was  permitted  to  travel 
alone.  .  .  .  She  had  planned  to  arrive  in 
Berlin  unannounced  and,  instead  of  taking  the 
morning  train  from  Eydtkuhnen,  to  take  the 
train  of  the  previous  evening.  Thus  a  night  was 
gained  whose  history  had  no  necessary  place  in 
any  family  chronicle  and  the  memories  of  which 
could,  if  need  were,  be  obliterated  from  one's  own 
consciousness.  .  .  .  Her  arrival  and  de- 
parture had  caused  a  few  moments  of  really 
needless  anxiety.  That  was  all.  Nt)  acquaint- 
ance had  run  into  them,  no  waiter  had  intimated 
any  suspicion,  the  very  cabby  who  drove  them 
through  the  dawn  had  preserved  his  stupid  lack 
of  expression  when  Niebeldingk  suddenly  sprang 
from  the  vehicle  and  permitted  the  lady  to  be 
driven  on  alone.     ... 

Before  his  eyes  stood  her  picture — as  he  had 
seen  her  lying  during  the  night  in  his  arms, 
fevered  with  anxiety  and  rapture     .     .     .  Ordi- 


THE   INDIAN  LILY  13 

narily  her  eyes  were  large  and  serene,  almost 
drowsy.  .  .  .  The  night  had  proven  to  him 
what  a  glow  could  be  kindled  in  them.  Whether 
her  broad  brows,  growing  together  over  the  nose, 
could  be  regarded  as  a  beautiful  feature — ^that 
was  an  open  question.  He  liked  them — so  much 
was  certain. 

"Thank  heaven,"  he  thought.  "At  last,  once 
more — a  woman" 

And  he  thought  of  another  who  for  three  years 
had  J)een  allied  to  him  by  bonds  of  the  tenderest 
intimacy  and  whom  he  had  this  night  betrayed. 

"Between  us,"  he  consoled  himself,  "things  will 
remain  as  they  have  been,  and  I  can  enjoy  my 
liberty." 

He  sprayed  his  body  with  the  icy  water  of  the 
douche  and  rang  for  John  who  stood  outside  of 
the  door  with  a  bath-robe. 

When,  ten  minutes  later,  shivering  comfort- 
ably, he  entered  the  breakfast-room,  he  found  be- 
side his  cup  a  little  heap  of  letters  which  the 
morning  post  had  brought.  There  were  two 
letters  that  gripped  his  attention. 

One  read: 

"Berlin  N.,  Philippstrasse  10  a. 
Deas  Hess  von  Niebeldingk: — 

For  the  past  week  I  have  been  in  Berlin  study- 
ing agriculture,  since,  as  you  know,  I  am  to  take 
charge  of  the  estate.     Papa  made  me  promise 


U  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

faithfully  to  look  you  up  immediately  after  my 
arrival.  It  is  merely  due  to  the  respect  I  owe 
you  that  I  haven't  kept  my  promise.  As  I  know 
that  you  won't  tell  Papa  I  might  as  well  confess 
to  you  that  I've  scarcely  been  sober  the  whole 
>veek. —    Oh,  Berlin  is  a  deuce  of  a  place ! 

If  you  don't  object  I  will  drop  in  at  noon  to- 
morrow and  convey  Papa's  greetings  to  you. 
Papa  is  again  afflicted  with  the  gout. 

With  warm  regards, 

Your  very  faithful 

Fritz  von  Ehrenberg." 

The  other  letter  was  from  .  .  .  her — 
clear,  serene,  full  of  such  literary  reminiscences 
as  always  dwelt  in  her  busy  little  head. 

"Dear  Friend: — 

I  wouldn't  ask  you:  Why  do  I  not  see  you? 
— you  have  not  called  for  five  days — I  would 
wait  quietly  till  your  steps  led  you  hither  without 
persuasion  or  compulsion;  but  'every  animal 
loves  itself  as  the  old  gossip  Cicero  says,  and  I 
feel  a  desire  to  chat  with  you. 

I  have  never  believed,  to  be  sure,  that  we  would 
remain  indispensable  to  each  other.  ^Racine 
passera  comme  le  cafef  Mme.  de  Sevigne  says 
somewhere,  but  I  would  never  have  dreamed  that 
we  would  see  so  little  of  each  other  before  the 
inevitable  end  of  all  things. 

You  know  the  proverb:  even  old  iron  hates  to 
rust,  and  I'm  only  twenty-five. 

Come  once  again,  dear  Master,  if  you  care 


THE    INDIAN   LILY  15 

to.  I  have  an  excellent  cigarette  for  you — ^Blum 
Pasha.  I  smoke  a  little  myself  now  and  then, 
but  c*e8t  plus  fort  quemoi  and  ends  in  head-ache. 
Joko  has  at  last  learned  to  say  'Richard.'  He 
trills  the  r  cunningly.  He  knows  that  he  has 
little  need  to  be  jealous. 

Good-bye! 

AucE." 

He  laughed  and  brou^t  forth  her  picture 
which  stood,  framed  and  glazed,  upon  his  desk. 
A  delicate,  slender  figure — ''blonde  comme  les 
hies*' — with  bluish  grey,  eager  eyes  and  a  mock- 
ing expression  of  the  lips — ^it  was  she  herself, 
she  who  had  made  the  last  years  of  his  life  truly 
livable  and  whose  fate  he  administered  rather 
than  ruled. 

She  was  the  wife  of  a  wealthy  mine-owner 
whose  estates  abutted  on  his  and  with  whom  an 
old  friendship,  founded  on  conmion  sports,  con- 
nected him. 

One  day,  suspecting  nothing,  Niebeldingk  en- 
tered the  man's  house  and  found  him  dragging 
his  young  wife  from  room  to  room  by  the  hair. 
.  Niebeldingk  interfered  and  felt,  in  re- 
turn, the  lash  of  a  whip.  .  .  Time  and 
place  had  been  decided  upon  when  the  man's 
physician  forbade  the  duel.  .  .  .  He  had  been 
long  suspected,  but  no  certain  symptoms  had  been 
alleged,  since  the  brave  little  woman  revealed 


16  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

nothing  of  the  frightful  inwardness  of  her  mar- 
ried life.  .  .  .  Three  days  later  he  was  defi- 
nitely sent  to  a  sanitarium.  Biit  between  Nie- 
beldingk  and  Alice  the  memory  of  that  last  hour 
of  suffering  soon  wove  a  thousand  threads  of 
helplessness  and  pity  into  the  web  of  love. 

As  she  had  long  lost  her  parents  and  as  she  was 
quite  defenceless  against  her  husband's  hostile 
guardians,  the  care  of  her  interests  devolved 
naturally  upon  him.  .  .  .  He  released  her 
from  troublesome  obligations  and  directed  her 
demands  toward  a  safe  goal.  .  .  .  Then,  very 
tenderly,  he  lifted  her  with  all  the  roots  of  her 
being  from  the  old,  poverty-stricken  soil  of  her 
earlier  years  and  transplanted  her  to  Berlin 
where,  by  the  help  of  his  brother's  wife — still 
gently  pressing  on  and  smoothing  the  way  him- 
self— ^he  created  a  new  way  of  life  for  her. 

In  a  villa,  hidden  by  foliage  from  Lake  Con- 
stance, her  husband  slowly  drowsed  toward  disso- 
lution. She  herself  ripened  in  the  sharp  air  of  the 
capital  and  grew  almost  into  another  woman  in 
this  banal,  disillusioned  world,  sober  even  in  its 
intoxication. 

Of  society,  from  whose  official  section  her  fate 
as  well  as  her  commoner's  name  separated  her, 
she  saw  just  enough  to  feel  the  influence  of  the 
essential  conceptions  that  governed  it. 

She  lost  diffidence  and  awkwardness,  she  be- 


THE   INDIAN   LILY  17 

came  a  woman  of  the  world  and  a  connoisseur  of 
life.  She  learned  to  condemn  one  day  what  she 
forgave  the  next,  she  learned  to  laugh  over  noth- 
ing and  to  grieve  over  nothing  and  to  be  indig- 
nant over  nothing. 

But  what  surprised  Niebeldingk  more  than 
these  small  adaptations  to  the  omnipotent  spirit 
of  her  new  environment,  was  the  deep  revolution 
experienced  by  her  innermost  being. 

She  had  been  a  chnging,  self-effacing,  timid 
soul.  Within  three  years  she  became  a  deter- 
mined and  calculating  little  person  who  lacked 
nothing  but  a  certain  fixedness  to  be  a  complete 
character. 

A  strange  coldness  of  the  heart  now  emanated 
from  her  and  this  was  strengthened  by  precipi- 
tate and  often  unkindly  judgment,  supported  in 
its  turn  by  a  desire  to  catch  her  own  reflection  in 
all  things  and  to  adopt  witty  points  of  view. 

Nor  was  this  all.  She  acquired  a  desire  to 
learn,  which  at  first  stimulated  and  amused  Nie- 
beldingk, but  which  had  long  grown  to  be  some- 
thing of  a  nuisance. 

He  himself  was  held,  and  rightly  held,  to  be  a 
man  of  intellect,  less  by  virtue  of  rapid  percep- 
tion and  flexible  thought,  than  by  virtue  of  a 
coolly  observant  vision  of  the  world,  incapai^e  of 
being  confused — a  certain  healthy  cynicism 
which,  though  it  never  lost  an  element  of  good 


m  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

nature,  might  yet  abash  and  even  chill  the  souls 
of  men. 

His  actual  knowledge,  however,  had  remained 
mere  wretched  patchwork,  his  logic  came  to  an 
end  wherever  bold  reliance  upon  the  intuitive 
process  was  needed  to  supply  missing  links  in 
the  ratiocinative  chain. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Alice,  whom  at 
first  he  had  regarded  as  his  scholar,  his  handi- 
work, his  creature,  had  developed  annoyingly  be- 
yond him.  .  .  .  Involuntarily  and  innocent- 
ly she  delivered  the  keenest  thrusts.  He  had,  ac- 
tually, to  be  on  guard.  ...  In  the  irrespon- 
sible delight  of  intellectual  crudity  she  solved  the 
deepest  problems  of  humanity ;  she  repeated,  full 
of  faith,  the  judgments  of  the  ephemeral  rapid 
writer,  instead  of  venturing  upon  the  sources  of 
knowledge.  Yet  even  so  she  impressed  him  by 
her  faculty  of  adaptation  and  her  shining  zeal. 
He  was  often  silenced,  for  his  slow  moving  mind 
could  not  follow  the  vagaries  of  that  rapid  little 
brain. 

What  would  she  be  at  again  to-day?  "The  old 
gossip  Cicero.  .  .  ."  And,  "Mme.  de  Se- 
vigne  remarks.  .  .  ."  What  a  rattling  and 
tinkling.    It  provoked  him. 

And  her  love !  .  .  .  That  was  a  bad  busi- 
ness. What  is  one  to  do  with  a  mistress  who, 
before  falling  asleep,  is  capable  of  lecturing  on 


;Qi 


THEMNDIAN  LILY  W 

Schopenhauer's  metaphysics  of  sex,  and  will 
prove  to  you  up  to  the  hilt  how  unworthy  it  really 
is  to  permit  oneself  to  be  duped  by  nature  if  one 
does  not  share  her  aim  for  the  generations  to 
come? 

The  man  is  still  to  be  born  upon  whom  such 
wisdom,  uttered  at  such  an  hour — by  lips  however 
sweet — does  not  cast  a  chill. 

Since  that  philosophical  night  he  had  left  un- 
touched the  little  key  that  hung  yonder  over  his 
desk  and  that  give  him,  in  her  house,  the  sacred 
privileges  of  a  husband.  And  so  his  life  became 
once  more  a  hunt  after  new  women  who  filled  his 
heart  with  unrest  and  with  the  foolish  fires  of 
youtk. 

But  Alice  had  never  been  angrj^  at  him.  Ap- 
parently she  lacked  nothing.     . 

And  his  thoughts  wandered  from  her  to  the 
woman  who  had  lain  against  his  breast  to-night, 
shuddering  in  her  stolen  joy. 

Heavens!  He  had  almost  forgotten  one 
thing! 

He  summoned  John  and  said: 

"Gk)  to  the  florist  and  order  a  bunch  of  Indian 
lilies.  The  man  knows  what  I  mean.  If  he 
hasn't  any,  let  him  procure  some  by  noon." 

John  did  not  move  a  muscle,  but  heaven  onlv 
knew  whether  he  did  not  suspect  the  connection 
between  the  Indian  lilies  and  the  romance  of  the 


20  THE    INDIAN    LILY 

past  night.  It  was  in  his  power  to  adduce  prece- 
dents. 

It  was  an  old  custom  of  Niebeldingk's — a  rem- 
nant of  his  half  out-lived  Don  Juan  years — to 
send  a  bunch  of  Indian  lilies  to  those  women  who 
had  granted  him  their  supreme  favours.  He  al- 
ways sent  the  flowers  next  morning.  Their  sym- 
bolism was  plain  and  delicate:  In  spite  of  what 
has  taken  place  you  are  as  lofty  and  as  sacred  in 
my  eyes  as  these  pallid,  alien  flowers  whose  home 
is  beside  the  Ganges.  Therefore  have  the  kind- 
ness— not  to  annoy  me  with  remorse. 

It  was  a  delicate  action  and — a  cynical  one. 


II. 

At  noon — Niebeldingk  had  just  returned  from 
his  morning  canter — ^the  visitor,  previously  an- 
nounoed,  was  ushered  in. 

He  was  a  robust  young  fellow,  long  of  limb  and 
broad  of  shoulder.  His  face  was  round  and 
tanned,  with  hot,  dark  eyes.  With  merry  bold- 
ness, yet  not  without  dMSdence,  he  sidled,  in  his 
blue  cheviot  suit,  into  the  room. 

"Morning,  Herr  von  Niebeldingk." 

Enviously  and  admiringly  Niebeldingk  sur- 
veyed the  athletic  figure  which  moved  with 
springy  grace. 

"Morning,  my  boy    .     .     .     sober?" 

"In  honour  of  the  day,  yes." 

"Shall  we  breakfast?" 

"Oh,  with  dehght,  Herr  von  Niebeldingk!" 

They  passed  into  the  breakfast-room  where 
two  covers  had  already  been  laid,  and  while  John 
served  the  caviare  the  flood  of  news  burst  which 
had  mounted  in  their  Franconian  home  during 
the  past  months. 

Three  betrothals,  two  important  transfers  of 
land,  a  wedding.  Papa's  gout.  Mama's  charities, 
Jenny's  new  target,  Crete's  flirtation  with  the 

21 


22  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

American  engineer.  And,  above  all  things,  the 
examination ! 

"Dear  Herr  von  Niebeldingk,  it's  a  rotten 
farce.  For  nine  years  the  gymnasium  trains  you 
and  drills  you,  and  in  the  end  you  don't  get  your 
trouble's  worth!  I'm  sorry  for  every  hour  of 
cramming  I  did.  They  released  me  from  the  oral 
exam.,  simply  sent  me  out  like  a  monkey  when  I 
was  just  beginning  to  let  my  light  shine!  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing?  Did  you  ever?" 

"Well,  and  how  about  your  university  work, 
Fritz?" 

That  was  a  ticklish  business,  the  youth  averred. 
Law  and  political  science  was  no  use.  Every  ass 
took  that  up.  And  since  it  was  after  all  only  his 
purpose  to  pass  a  few  years  of  his  green  youth 
profitably,  why  he  thought  he'd  stick  to  his  trade 
and  find  out  how  to  plant  cabbages  properly. 

"Have  you  started  in  anywhere  yet?" 

Oh,  there  was  time  enough.  But  he  had  been 
to  some  lectures — agronomy  and  inorganic  chem- 
istry. .  .  .  You  have  to  begin  with  inorganic 
chemistry  if  you  want  to  go  in  for  organic.  And 
the  latter  was  agricultural  chemistry  which  was 
what  concerned  him. 

He  made 'these  instructive  remarks  with  a 
serious  air  and  poured  down  glass  after  glass  of 
Madeira.  His  cheeks  began  to  glow,  his  heart 
expanded. 


THE   INDIAN  LILY  23 

"But  that's  all  piffle,  Herr  von  Niebeldingk, 
.     all  this  bookworm  business  can  go  to 
the  devil     .      .     .     Life— life— life— that's  the 
main  thing!" 

"What  do  you  call  life,  Fritz?" 

With  both  hands  he  stroked  the  velvety  surface 
of  his  close-cropped  skull. 

"Well,  how  am  I  to  tell  you?  D'you  know  how 
I  feel?  As  if  I  were  standing  in  front  of  a  great, 
closed  garden  .  .  .  and  I  know  that  all 
Paradise  is  inside  .  .  .  and  occasionally  a 
strain  of  music  floats  out  .  .  .  and  occa- 
sionally a  white  garment  ghtters  .  .  .  and 
I'd  like  to  get  in  and  I  can't.  That's  life^  you 
see.   And  I've  got  to  stand  miserably  outside?" 

"Well,  you  don't  impress  me  as  such  a  miser- 
able creature?" 

"No,  no,  in  a  way,  not.  On  the  coarser  side,  so 
to  !»peak,  I  have  a  good  deal  of  fun.  Out  there 
around  PMlippstrasse  and  Marienstrasse  there 
are  women  enough — stylish  and  fine-looking  and 
everything  you  want.  And  my  friends  are  great 
fellows,  too.  Every  one  can  stand  his  fifteen 
glasses  ...  I  suppose  I  am  an  ass  . 
and  perhaps  it's  only  moral  katzenjammer  on 
account  of  this  past  week.  But  when  I  walk  the 
streets  and  see  the  tall,  distinguished  houses  and 
think  of  all  those  people  and  their  lives,  yonder 
a  millionaire,  here  a  minister  of  state,  and  think 


24  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

that,  once  upon  a  time,  they  were  all  crude  boys 
like  myself — well,  then  I  have  the  feeling  as  if 
I'd  never  attain  anything,  but  always  remain 
what  I  am." 

"Well,  my  dear  Fritz,  the  only  remedy  for 
that  lies  in  that  'book-worm  business'  as  you  call 
it.    Sit  down  on  your  breeches  and  work!" 

"No,  Herr  von  Niebeldingk,  it  isn't  that  either 
.  let  me  tell  you.  Day  before  yesterday 
I  was  at  the  opera  .  .  .  They  sang  the 
Gdtterddmmerung.  .  .  .  You  know,  of 
course.  There  is  Siegfried,  a  fellow  like  myself, 
not  more  than  twenty  ...  I 
sat  upstairs  in  the  third  row  with  two  seam- 
stresses. I'd  picked  them  up  in  the  Chaussee- 
strasse — cute  little  beasts,  too.  .  .  .  But 
when  Brunhilde  stretched  out  her  wonderful, 
white  arms  to  him  and  sang:  *On  to  new  deeds, 
O  hero!'  why  I  felt  like  taking  the  two  girls  by 
the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  pitching  them  down 
into  the  pit.  I  was  so  ashamed.  Because,  you 
see,  Siegfried  had  his  Brunhilde  who  inspired  him 
to  do  great  deeds.  And  what  have  I  ?  .  . 
A  couple  of  hard  cases  picked  up  in  the 
street." 

"Afterwards,  I  suppose,  you  felt  more  recon- 
ciled?" 

"That  shows  how  little  you  know  me.  I'd 
promised  the  girls  supper.  So  I  had  to  eat  with 


THE    INDIAN  LILY  25 

them.  But  when  that  was  over  I  let  'em  slide. 
I  ran  about  in  the  streets  and  just — ^howled!" 
"Very  well,  but  what  exactly  are  you  after?" 
"That's  what  I  don't  know,  Herr  von  Nie- 
beldingk.  Oh,  if  I  knew!  But  it's  something 
quite  indefinite — hard  to  think,  hard  to  compre- 
hend. I'd  hke  to  howl  with  laughter  and  I  don't 
know  why  ...  to  shriek,  and  I  don't  know 
what  about." 

"Blessed  youth!"  Niebeldingk  thought,  and 
looked  at  the  enthusiastic  boy  full  of  emotion. 

•  •  • 

John,  who  was  ser\dng,  announced  that  the 
florist's  girl  had  come  with  the  Indian  lilies. 

"Indian  lilies,  what  sort  of  lihes  are  they?" 
asked  Fritz  overcome  by  a  hesitant  admiration. 

"You'll  see,"  Niebeldingk  answered  and 
ordered  the  girl  to  be  admitted. 

She  struggled  through  the  door,  a  half -grown 
thing  with  plump  red  cheeks  and  smooth  yellow 
hair.  Diffident  and  frightened,  she  nevertheless 
began  to  flirt  with  Fritz.  In  front  of  her  she 
held  the  long  stems  of  the  exotic  lihes  whose 
blossoms,  like  gigantic  narcissi,  brooded  in  star- 
like rest  over  chaste  and  alien  dreams.  From  the 
middle  of  each  chalice  came  a  sharp,  green 
shimmer  which  faded  gently  along  the  petals  of 
the  flowers. 

"Confound  it,  but  they're  beautiful!"  cried 


26  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

Fritz.  "Surely  they  have  quite  a  peculiar  signi- 
ficance." 

Niebeldingk  arose,  wrote  the  address  without 
permitting  John,  who  stood  in  suspicious  prox- 
imity, to  throw  a  glance  at  it,  handed  cards  and 
flowers  to  the  girl,  gave  her  a  tip,  and  escorted 
her  to  the  door  himself. 

"So  they  do  mean  something  special?"  Fritz 
asked  eagerly.  He  couldn't  get  over  his  en- 
thusiasm. 

"Yes,  my  boy." 

"And  may  one  know.     .     .     . " 

"Surely,  one  may  know.  I  give  these  lilies  to 
that  lady  whose  lofty  purity  transcends  all  doubt 
— I  give  them  as  a  symbol  of  my  chaste  and  de- 
sireless  admiration." 

Fritz's  eyes  shone. 

"Ah,  but  I'd  like  to  know  a  lady  like  that — 
some  day!"  he  cried  and  pressed  his  hands  to  his 
forehead. 

"That  will  come!  That  will  come!"  Niebel- 
dingk tapped  the  youth's  shoulder  calmingly. 
"Will  you  have  some  salad?" 


III. 

Around  the  hour  of  afternoon  tea  Nie- 
beldingk,  true  to  a  dear,  old  habit,  went  to  see 
his  friend. 

She  inhabited  a  small  second-floor  apartment 
in  the  Regentenstrasse  which  he  had  himself  se- 
lected for  her  when  she  came  as  a  stranger  to 
Berlin.  With  flowers  and  palms  and  oriental 
rugs  she  had  moulded  a  delicious  retreat,  and  be- 
fore her  bed-room  windows  the  nightingales  sang 
in  the  springtime. 

She  seemed  to  be  expecting  him.  In  the  great, 
raised  bay,  separated  from  the  rest  of  the  draw- 
ing-room by  a  thicket  of  dark  leaves,  the  stout 
tea-urn  was  already  expectantly  humming. 

In  a  bright,  girlish  dress,  devoid  of  coquetry 
or  pouting,  Alice  came  to  meet  him. 

"I'm  glad  you're  here  again,  Richard." 

That  was  all. 

He  wanted  to  launch  out  into  the  tale  which 
he  had  meant  to  tell  her,  but  she  cut  him  short. 

"Since  when  do  I  demand  excuses,  Richard? 
You  come  and  there  you  are.  And  if  you  don't 
come,  I  have  to  be  content  too." 

27 


28 


THE   INDIAN   LILYj 


"You  should  really  be  a  little  less  tolerant,"  he 
warned  her. 

"A  blessed  lot  it  would  help  me,"  she  answered 
merrily. 

Gently  she  took  his  arm  and  led  him  to  his  old 
place.  Then  silently,  and  with  that  restrained 
eagerness  that  characterised  all  her  actions  she 
busied  herself  with  the  tea-urn. 

His  critical  and  discriminating  gaze  followed 
her  movements.  With  swift,  delicate  gestures 
she  pushed  forward  the  Chinese  dish,  shook  the 
tea  from  the  canister  and  poured  the  first  drops 
of  boiling  water  through  a  sieve.  .  .  .  Her 
quick,  bird-like  head  moved  hither  and  thither, 
and  the  bow  of  the  orange-coloured  ribbon  which 
surrounded  her  over-delicate  neck  trembled  a 
little  with  every  motion. 

"She  really  is  the  most  charming  of  all,"  such 
was  the  end  of  his  reflections,  "if  only  she  weren't 
so  damnably  sensible." 

Silently  she  took  her  seat  opposite  him,  folded 
her  white  hands  in  her  lap,  and  looked  into 
his  eyes  with  such  significant  archness  that  he  be- 
gan to  feel  embarrassed. 

Had  she  any  suspicion  of  his  infidelities  ? 

Surely  not.  No  jealous  woman  can  look  about 
her  so  calmly  and  serenely. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  all  this  time?"  he 
asked. 


THE   INDIAN  LILT  29 

"I?  Good  heavens  I  Look  about  you  and  you'll 

see." 

She  pointed  to  a  heap  of  books  which  lay  scat- 
tered over  the  window  seat  and  sewing  table. 

There  were  Moltke's  letters  and  the  memoirs 
of  von  Schon,  and  Max  MiiUer's  Aryan  stud- 
ies. Nor  was  the  inevitable  Schopenhauer  lack- 
ing. 

"What  are  you  after  with  all  that  learning?" 
he  asked. 

"Ah,  dear  friend,  what  is  one  to  do?  One  can't 
always  be  going  about  in  strange  houses.  Do  you 
expect  me  to  stand  at  the  window  and  watch  the 
clouds  float  over  the  old  city- wall?" 

He  had  the  uncomfortable  impression  that  she 
was  quoting  something  again. 

"My  mood,"  she  went  on,  "is  in  what  Goethe 
calls  the  minor  of  the  soul.  It  is  the  yearning 
that  reaches  out  afar  and  yet  restrains  itself 
harmoniously  within  itself.  Isn't  that  beautifully 
put?"     , 

"It  may  be,  but  it's  too  high  for  me!"  In 
laughing  self-protection,  he  stretdied  out  his 
arms  toward  her. 

"Don't  make  fun  of  me,"  she  said,  sillily 
shamed,  and  arose. 

"And  what  is  the  object  of  your  yearning?" 
he  asked  in  order  to  leave  the  realm  of  Groethe 
as  swiftly  as  possible. 


80  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

"Not  yon,  you  horrible  person,"  she  answered 
and,  for  a  moment,  touched  his  hair  with  her  lips. 

"I  know  that,  dearest,"  he  said,  "it's  a  long 
time  since  you've  sent  me  two  notes  a  day." 

"And  since  you  came  to  see  me  twice  daily," 
she  returned  and  gazed  at  the  floor  with  a  sad 
irony. 

"We  have  both  changed  greatly,  Alice." 

"We  have  indeed,  Richard." 

A  silence  ensued. 

His  eyes  wandered  to  the  opposite  wall.  .  .  .i 
His  own  picture,  framed  in  silvery  maple-wood, 
hung  there.  .  .  .  Behind  the  frame  appeared 
a  bunch  of  blossoms,  long  faded  and  shrivelled 
to  a  brownish,  indistinguishable  heap. 

These  two  alone  knew  the  significance  of  the 
flowers.     ... 

"Were  you  at  least  happy  in  those  days, 
Alice?" 

'You  know  I  am  always  happy,  Richard." 

'Oh  yes,  yes ;  I  know  your  philosophy.  But  I 
meant  happy  with  me,  through  me?" 

She  stroked  her  delicate  nose  thoughtfully. 
The  mocking  expression  about  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  became  accentuated. 

"I  hardly  think  so,  Richard,"  she  said  after  an 
interval.  "I  was  too  much  afraid  of  you  .  .  . 
I  seemed  so  stupid  in  comparison  to  you  and  I 
feared  that  you  would  despise  me." 


THE   INDIAN  LILY  31 

"That  fear,  at  least,  you  have  overcome  very 
thoroughly  ?"  he  asked. 

"Not  wholly,  Richard.  Things  have  only 
shifted  their  basis.  Just  as,  in  those  days,  I  felt 
ashamed  of  my  ignorance,  so  now  I  feel  ashamed 
— no,  that  isn't  the  right  word.  .  .  .  But  all 
this  stuff  that  I  store  up  in  my  head  seems  to 
weigh  upon  me  in  my  relations  with  you.  I  seem 
to  be  a  nuisance  with  it.  .  .  .  You  men, 
especially  mature  men  like  yourself,  seem  to 
know  all  these  things  better,  even  when  you  don't 
know  them.    .  .     The  precise  form  in  which 

a  given  thought  is  presented  to  us  may  be  new  to 
you,  but  the  thought  itself  you  have  long  digested. 
It's  for  this  reason  that  I  feel  intimidated  when- 
ever I  approach  you  with  my  pursuits.  'You 
might  better  have  held  your  peace,'  I  say  to  my- 
self. But  what  am  I  to  do?  I'm  so  profoundly 
interested!" 

"So  you  really  need  the  society  of  a  rather 
stupid  fellow,  one  to  whom  all  this  is  new  and  who 
will  furnish  a  grateful  audience?" 

"Stupid?  No,"  she  answered,  "but  he  ought  to 
be  inexperienced.  He  ought  himself  to  want  to 
learn  things.  .  .  .  He  ought  not  to  assume 
a  compassionate  expression  as  who  should  say: 
*  Ah,  my  dear  child,  if  you  knew  what  I  know,  and 
how  indifferent  aU  those  things  are  to  me !'  .  .  . 
For  these  things  are  not  indifferent,  Richard,  not 


'     \      .'   "     ■       ■-■- 

82  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

to  me,  at  least.  .  .  .  And  for  the  sake  of  the 
joy  I  take  in  them,  you     .     .     ." 

"Strange  how  she  sees  through  me,"  he  reflect- 
ed.   "I  wonder  she  clings  to  me  as  she  does." 

And  while  he  was  trying  to  think  of  something 
that  might  help  her,  the  dear  boy  came  into  his 
mind  who  had  to-day  divulged  to  him  the  sorrows 
of  youth  and  whom  the  unconscious  desire  for  a 
higher  plane  of  life  had  driven  weeping  through 
the  streets. 

"I  know  of  some  one  for  you." 

Her  expression  was  serious. 

"You  know  of  some  one  for  me,"  she  repeated 
with  painful  deliberateness. 

"Don't  misunderstand  me.  It's  a  playfellow, 
a  pupil — something  in  the  nature  of  a  pastime, 
anything  you  will." 

He  told  her  the  story  of  Siegfried  and  the  two 
seamstresses. 

She  laughed  heartily. 

"I  was  afraid  you  wanted  to  be  rid  of  me,"^ 
she  said,  laying  her  forehead  for  a  few  moments 
against  his  sleeve. 

"Shame  on  you,"  he  said,  carelessly  stroking 
her  hair.  "But  what  do  you  think?  Shall  I 
bring  the  yoiHig  fellow?" 

"You  may  very  well  bring  him,"  she  answered. 
There  was  a  look  of  pain  about  her  mouths 
"Doesn't  one  even  train  young  poodles  ?" 


IV. 

Three  days  later,  at  the  same  hour  of  the 
afternoon,  the  student,  Fritz  von  Ehrenberg  en- 
tered Niebeldingk's  study. 

"I  have  summoned  you,  dear  friend,  because  I 
want  to  introduce  you  to  a  charming  young 
woman,"  Niebeldingk  said,  arising  from  his  desk. 

"Now?"  Fritz  asked,  sharply  taken  aback. 

"Why  not?" 

"Why,  I'd  have  to  get  my — ^my  afternoon  coat 
first  and  fix  myself  up  a  bit.  What  is  the  lady  to 
think  of  me?" 

"I'll  take  care  of  that.  Furthermore,  you 
probably  know  her,  at  least  by  reputation." 

He  mentioned  the  name  of  her  husband  which 
was  known  far  and  wide  in  their  native  province, 

Fritz  knew  the  whole  story. 

"Poor  lady !"  he  said.  "Papa  and  Mama  have 
often  felt  sorry  for  her.  I  suppose  her  husband 
is  still  living." 

Niebeldingk  nodded. 

"People  all  said  that  you  were  going  to  marry 
her." 

"I«  ^W  what  people  said?" 

33 


i'«^ 


34 


THE    INDIAN   LILY 


"Yes,  and  Papa  thought  it  would  be  a  piece  of 
great  good  fortune." 

"For  whom?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  suppose  that  was  tact- 
less, Herr  von  Niebeldingk." 

"It  was,  dear  Fritz. — But  don't  worry  about 
it,  just  come." 

The  introduction  went  smoothly.  Fritz  be- 
haved as  became  the  son  of  a  good  family,  was  re- 
spectful but  not  stiff,  and  answered  her  friendly 
questions  briefly  and  to  the  point. 

"He's  no  discredit  to  me,"  Niebeldingk 
thought. 

As  for  Alice,  she  treated  her  young  guest  with 
a  smiling,  motherly  care  which  was  new  in  her 
and  which  filled  Niebeldingk  with  quiet  pleasure. 
.  On  other  occasions  she  had  assimied  to- 
ward young  men  a  tone  of  wise,  faint  interest 
which  meant  clearly :  "I  will  exhaust  your  possi- 
bilities and  then  drop  you."  To-day  she  showed 
a  genuine  sympathy  which,  though  its  purpose 
may  have  been  to  test  him  the  more  sharply, 
seemed  yet  to  bear  witness  to  the  pure  and  free 
humanity  of  her  soul. 

She  asked  him  after  his  parental  home  and  was 
charmed  with  his  naive  rapture  at  escaping  the 
psychical  atmosphere  of  the  cradle-songs  of  his 
mother's  house.  She  was  also  pleased  with  his 
attitude  toward  his  younger  brothers  and  sisters. 


THE   INDIAN   LILY 


m 


equally  devoid,  as  it  was,  of  exaggeration  or  con- 
descension. Everything  about  him  seemed  to  her 
simple  and  sane  and  full  of  ardour  after  in- 
formation and  maturity. 

Niebeldingk  sat  quietly  in  his  corner  ready,  at 
need,  to  smooth  over  any  outbreak  of  uncouth 
youthfulness.  But  there  was  no  occasion.  Fritz 
confined  himself  within  the  limits  of  modest 
liberty  and  used  his  mind  vigorously  but  with  de- 
vout respect  and  delighted  obedience.  Once  only, 
when  the  question  of  the  necessity  of  authority 
came  up,  did  he  go  far. 

"I  don't  give  a  hang  for  any  authority,"  he 
said.  "Even  the  mild  compulsion  of  what  are 
called  high-bred  manners  may  go  to  the  deuce 
for  me !" 

Niebeldingk  was  about  to  interfere  with  some 
reconciling  remark  when  he  observed,  to  his  as- 
tonishment, that  Alice  who,  as  a  rule,  was  bitterly 
hostile  to  all  strident  unconventionality,  had 
taken  no  offence. 

"Let  him  be,  Niebeldingk,"  she  said.  "As  far 
as  he  is  concerned  he  is,  doubtless,  in  the  right. 
And  nothing  would  be  more  shameful  than  if 
society  were  already  to  begin  to  make  a  feature- 
less model  boy  of  him." 

"That  will  never  be,  I  swear  to  you,  dear  lady," 
cried  Fritz  all  aglow  and  stretching  out  Ms  hands 
to  ward  off  imaginary  chains. 


m  THE    INDIAN   LILYi 

Niebeldingk  smiled  and  thought :  "So  much  the 
better  for  him.'*    Then  he  lit  a  fresh  cigarette. 

The  conversation  turned  to  learned  things. 
Fritz,  paraphrasing  Tacitus,  vented  his  hatred  of 
the  Latin  civilisations.  Alice  agreed  with  him 
and  quoted  Mme.  de  Stael.  Niebeldingk  arose, 
quietly  meeting  the  reproachful  glance  of  his  be- 
loved. 

Fritz  jumped  up  simultaneously,  but  Nie- 
beldingk laughingly  pushed  him  back  into  his 
seat. 

"You  just  stay,"  he  said,  "our  dear  friend  is 
only  too  eager  to  slaughter  a  few  more  peoples." 


y. 

When  he  dropped  in  at  Alice's  a  few  days 
later  he  found  her  sitting,  hot-cheeked  and  ab- 
sorbed, over  Strauss's  LAfe  of  Jesus. 

"Just  fancy,"  she  said,  holding  up  her  fore- 
head for  his  kiss,  "that  young  poodle  of  yours  is 
making  me  take  notice.  He  gives  me  intellectual 
nuts  to  crack.  It's  strange  how  this  young  gen- 
eration  " 

"I  beg  of  you,  Alice,"  he  interrupted  her,  "you 
are  only  a  very  few  years  his  senior." 

"That  may  be  so,"  she  answered,  "but  the  little 
education  I  have  derives  from  another  epoch. 
.  I  am,  metaphysically,  as  unexacting  as 
the  people  of  your  generation.  A  certain  f  ogless 
freedom  of  thought  seemed  to  me  until  to-day  the 
highest  point  of  human  development." 

"And  Fritz  von  Ehrenberg,  student  of  agricul- 
ture, has  converted  you  to  a  kind  of  thoughtful 
religiosity?"  he  asked,  smiling  good-naturedly. 

In  her  zeal  she  wasn't  even  aware  of  his  irony. 

"We're  not  going  to  give  in  so  easily.  .  .  . 
But  it  is  strange  what  an  impression  is  made  on 
one  by  a  current  of  strong  and  natural  feeling. 
.     .     .    This  young  fellow  comes  to  me  and  says : 

37 


88  THE    IXDIAN   LILY 

*There  is  a  God,  for  1  feel  Him  and  I  need  Him. 
Prove  the  contrary  if  yon  can.'     .      .  Well, 

so  I  set  about  proving  the  contrary  to  him.  But 
our  poor  negations  have  become  so  glib  that  one 
has  forgotten  the  reasons  for  them.  Finally  he 
defeated  me  along  the  whole  line  .  .  .  so  I 
sat  down  at  once  and  began  to  study  up  .  .  . 
just  as  one  would  polish  rusty  weapons  .  .  . 
Bible  criticism  and  DuBois-Reymond  and  'Force 
and  Matter*  and  all  the  things  that  are  tradition- 
aUy  irrefutable." 

"And  that  amuses  you?"  he  asked  compassion- 
ately. 

A  theoretical  indignation  took  hold  of  her  that 
always  amused  him  greatly. 

"Does  it  amuse  me?  Are  such  things  proper 
subjects  for  amusement?  Surely  you  must  use 
other  expressions,  Richard,  when  one  is  concerned 
for  the  most  sacred  goods  of  humanity.    .     .     . " 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  "I  didn't  mean  to  touch 
those  things  irreverently." 

She  stroked  his  arm  softly,  thus  dimibly  ask- 
ing forgiveness  in  her  turn. 

"But  now,"  she  continued,  "I  am  equipped 
once  more,  and  when  he  comes  to-morrow " 

"So  he's  coming  to-morrow?" 

"Naturally,  .  .  .  then  you  will  see  how 
I'll  send  him  home  sorely  whipped  .  .  .  I 
can  defeat  him  with  Kant's  antinomies  alone. 


THE   INDIAN  LILY  m 

,  .  .  And  when  it  comes  to  what  people  call 
'rerelation,'  well  I  .  .  .  But  I  assure  you,  my 
dear  one,  I'm  not  very  happy  defending  this  icy, 
nagging  criticism.  .  .  .  To  be  quite  sincere, 
I  would  far  rather  be  on  his  side.  Warmth  is 
there  and  feeling  and  something  positive  to  sup- 
port one.    Would  you  like  some  tea?" 

"Thanks,  no,  but  some  brandy." 

Rapidly  brushing  the  waves  of  hair  troai  her 
drawn  forehead  she  ran  into  the  next  room  and 
returned  with  the  bottle  bearing  three  stars  on  its 
label  from  which  she  herself  took  a  tiny  drop 
occasionally — "when  my  mind  loses  tone  for 
study"  as  she  was  wont  to  say  in  self -justifica- 
tion. 

A  crimson  afterglow,  reflected  from  the  walls 
of  the  houses  opposite,  filled  the  little  drawing- 
room  in  which  the  mass  of  feminine  ornaments 
glimmered  and  glittered. 

"I've  really  become  quite  a  stranger  here,"  he 
thought,  regarding  all  these  things  with  the 
curiosity  of  one  who  has  come  after  an  absence. 
From  each  object  hung,  like  a  dewdrop,  the  mem- 
ory of  some  exquisite  hour. 

"You  look  about  you  so,"  Alice  said  with  an 
undertone  of  anxiety  in  her  voice,  "don't  you  like 
it  here  any  longer?" 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,"  he  exclaimed,  "I 
like  it  better  daily." 


40  THE    INDIAN   LILY, 

She  was  about  to  reply  but  fell  silent 
and  looked  into  space  with  a  smile  of  wistful 
irony. 

"If  I  except  the  Life  of  Jesus  and  the  Kantian 
— what  do  you  call  the  things?" 

"Antinomies." 

"Alia — anti  and  nomos — I  understand — well, 
if  I  except  these  dusty  superfluities,  I  may  say 
that  your  furnishings  are  really  faultless.  The 
quotations  from  Goethe  are  really  more  appro- 
priate, although  I  could  do  without  them." 

"I'll  have  them  swept  out,"  she  said  in  playful 
submission. 

"You  are  a  dear  girl,"  he  said  playfully  and 
passed  his  hand  caressingly  over  her  severely 
combed  hair. 

She  grasped  his  arm  with  both  hands  and  re- 
mained motionless  for  a  moment  during  which 
her  eyes  fastened  themselves  upon  his  with  a 
strangely  rigid  gleam. 

"What  evil  have  I  done?"  he  asked.  "Do  you 
remember  our  childhood's  verse :  'I  am  small,  my 
heart  is  pure?'    Have  mercy  on  me." 

"I  was  only  playing  at  passion,"  she  said  with 
the  old  half-wistful,  half-mocking  smile,  "in 
order  that  our  •  relations  may  not  lose  solid 
ground  utterly." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  pretending 
astonishment. 


THE    INDIAN   LILY  41 

"And  do  you  really  think,  Richard,  that  be- 
tween us,  things,  being  as  they  are — are  right?" 

"I  can't  imagine  any  change  that  could  take 
place  at  present." 

She  hid  a  hot  flush  of  shame.  She  was  obvious- 
ly of  the  opinion  that  he  had  interpreted  her 
meaning  in  the  light  of  a  desire  for  marriage. 
All  earthly  possibilities  had  been  discussed  be- 
tween them:  this  one  alone  had  been  sedulously 
avoided  in  all  their  conversations. 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  continued,  de- 
termined to  skirt  the  dangerous  subject  with 
grace  and  ease,  "there's  no  question  here  of  any- 
thing external,  of  any  change  of  front  with  refer- 
ence to  the  world.  It's  far  too  late  for  that. 
.  .  .  Let  us  remain — if  I  may  so  put  it — in  our 
spiritual  four  walls.  Given  our  characters  or,  I 
had  better  say,  given  your  character  I  see  no 
other  relation  between  us  that  promises  any 
permanence.  .  .  .  If  I  were  to  pursue  you 
with  a  kind  of  infatuation,  or  you  me  with 
jealousy — ^it  would  be  insupportable  to  us  both." 

She  did  not  reply  but  gently  rolled  and  un- 
rolled the  narrow,  blue  silk  scarf  of  her  gown. 

"As  it  is,  we  live  happily  and  at  peace,"  he 
went  on,  "Each  of  us  has  liberty  and  an  in- 
dividual  existence  and  yet  we  know  how  deeply 
rooted  our  hearts  are  in  each  other." 

She  heaved  a  sigh  of  painful  oppression. 


42  THE    INDIAN   LILY, 

"Aren't  you  content?"  he  asked. 

"For  heaven's  sake!  Surely!"  Her  voice  was 
frightened.  "No  one  could  be  more  content  than 
I.    If  only " 

"Well— what?" 

"If  only  it  weren't  for  the  lonely  evenings^" 

A  silence  ensued.  This  was  a  sore  point  and 
had  always  been.  He  knew  it  well.  But  he  had 
to  have  his  evenings  to  himself.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  be  done  about  that. 

"You  musn't  think  me  immodest  in  my  de- 
mands," she  went  on  in  hasty  exculpation.  "I'm 
not  even  aiming  my  remarks  at  you  .  .  .I'm 
only  thinking  aloud.  .  .  .  But  you  see,  I 
can't  get  any  real  foothold  in  society  until — until 
my  aflFairs  are  more  clarified.  .  .  .  To  run 
about  the  drawing-rooms  as  an  example  of 
frivolous  heedlessness — that's  not  my  way.  .  .  . 
I  can  always  hear  them  whisper  behind  me:  *She 
doesn't  take  it  much  to  heart,  that  shows  .  .  . ' 
No,  I'd  rather  stay  at  home.  I  have  no  friends 
either  and  what  chance  had  I  to  make  tliem? 
You  were  always  my  one  and  only  friend.  .  .  . 
My  books  remain.  And  that's  very  well  by  day 
.  but  when  the  lamps  are  lit  I  begin  to 
throb  and  ache  and  run  about  .  .  .  and  I 
listen  for  the  trill  of  the  door-bell.  But  no  one 
comes,  nothing — except  the  evening  paper.  And 
that's  only  in  winter.    Now  it's  brought  before 


THE    INDIAN   LILY  43 

dusk.  And  in  the  end  there's  nothing  worth 
while  in  it.  .  .  .  And  so  life  goes  day  after 
day.  At  last  one  creeps  into  bed  at  half-past 
nine  and,  of  course,  has  a  wretched  night." 

"Well,  but  how  am  I  to  help  you,  dear  child?" 
he  asked  thoughtfully.  He  was  touched  by  her 
quiet,  almost  serene  complaint.  "If  we  took  to 
passing  our  evenings  together,  scandal  would 
soon  have  us  by  the  throat,  and  then — ^woe  to 

you!" 

Her  eager  eyes  gazed  bravely  at  him. 

"Well,"  she  said  at  last,"  suppose " 

"What?" 

"Never  mind.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  me 
unwomanly.  And  what  I've  been  describing  to 
you  is,  after  all,  only  a  symptom.  There's  a  kind 
of  restlessness  in  me  that  I  can't  explain.  .  .  . 
If  I  were  of  a  less  active  temper,  things  would  be 
better.  ...  It  sounds  paradoxical,  but  just 
because  I  have  so  much  activity  in  me,  do  I 
weary  so  quickly.    Goethe  said  once " 

He  raised  his  hands  in  laughing  protest. 

She  was  reaUy  frightened. 

"Ah,  yes,  forgive  me,"  she  cried.  "All  that 
was  to  be  swept  out.  .  .  .  How  forgetful 
one  can  be.     .     .     . " 

Smiling,  she  leaned  her  head  against  his 
shoulder  and  was  not  to  be  persuaded  from  her 
silence. 


VI. 

"There  are  delicate  boundaries  withiR  the 
realm  of  the  eternal  womanly," — thus  Nie- 
beldingk  reflected  next  day, — "in  which  one  is 
sorely  puzzled  as  to  what  one  had  better  put  into 
an  envelope:  a  poem  or  a  cheque." 

His  latest  adventure — the  cause  of  these  re- 
flections— ^liad  blossomed,  the  evening  before, 
like  the  traditional  rose  on  the  dungheap. 

One  of  his  friends  who  had  travelled  about  the 
world  a  good  deal  and  who  now  assumed  the  part 
of  the  full-blown  Parisian,  had  issued  invitations 
to  a  house-warming  in  his  new  bachelor-apart- 
ment. He  had  invited  a  number  of  his  gayer 
friends  and  ladies  exclusively  from  so-called  ar- 
tistic circles.  So  far  all  was  quite  Parisian. 
Only  the  journalists  who  might,  next  morning, 
have  proclaimed  the  glory  of  the  festivity  to  the 
w^orld — these  were  excluded.  Berlin,  for  va- 
rious reasons,  did  not  seem  an  appropriate  place 
for  that. 

It  was  a  rather  dreary  sham  orgy.  Even 
chaperones  were  present.  Several  ladies  had 
carefully  brought  them  and  they  could  scarcely 

44 


THE   INDIAN   LILY,  45 

be  put  out.  Other  ladies  even  thought  it  incum- 
bent upon  them  to  ask  after  the  wives  of  the 
gentlemen  present  and  to  turn  up  their  noses 
when  it  appeared  that  these  were  conspicuous 
by  their  absence.  It  was  upon  this  occasion, 
however,  that  some  beneficent  chance  assigned 
to  Niebeldingk  a  sighing  blonde  who  remained 
at  his  side  all  evening. 

Her  name  was  Meta,  she  belonged  to  one  of 
the  "best  families"  of  Posen,  she  lived  in  Berlin 
with  her  mother  who  kept  a  boarding  house  for 
ladies  of  the  theatre.  She  herself  nursed  the 
ardent  desire  to  dedicate  herself  to  art,  for  "the 
ideal"  had  always  been  the  guiding  star  of  her 
existence. 

At  the  beginning  of  supper  she  expressed  her- 
self with  a  fine  indignation  concerning  the  ladies 
present  into  whose  midst — she  assured  him 
eagerly — she  had  fallen  through  sheer  accident. 
Later  she  thawed  out,  assimied  a  friendly  com- 
panionableness  to  these  despised  individuals  and, 
in  order  to  raise  Niebeldingk's  delight  to  the 
highest  point,  admitted  with  maidenly  frankness 
the  indescribable  and  mysterious  attraction  to- 
ward him  which  she  had  felt  at  the  first  glance. 

Of  course,  her  principles  were  impregnable. 
He  mustn't  doubt  that.  She  would  rather  seek  a 
moist  death  in  the  waves  than  .  .  .  and  so 
forth. 


46  THE    INDIAN    LILY 

Although  she  made  this  solemn  proclamation 
over  the  dessert,  the  consequence  of  it  all  was  an 
intimate  visit  to  Niebeldingk's  dwelling  which 
came  to  a  bitter  sweet  end  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning  with  gentle  tears  concerning  the  wicked- 
ness of  men  in  general  and  of  himself  in  par- 
ticular.    . 

An  attack  of  hatzenjaminer — such  as  is  scarce- 
ly ever  spared  worldly  people  of  forty — threw  a 
sobering  shadow  upon  this  event.  The  shadow 
crept  forward  too,  and  presaged  annoyance. 

He  was  such  an  old  hand  now,  and  didn't  even 
know  into  what  category  she  really  fitted.  Was 
it,  after  all,  impossible  that  behind  all  this 
frivolity  the  desire  to  take  up  the  struggle  for 
existence  on  cleanly  terms  stuck  in  her  little 
head? 

At  all  events  he  determined  to  spare  the  pos- 
sible wounding  of  outraged  womanliness  and  to 
wait  before  putting  any  final  stamp  upon  the 
nature  of  their  relations.  Hence  he  set  out  to 
play  the  tender  lover  by  means  of  the  well-tried 
device  of  a  bunch  of  Indian  lilies. 

When  he  was  about  to  give  the  order  for  the 
flowers  to  John  who  always,  upon  these  occa- 
sions, assumed  a  cQnscientiously  stupid  expres- 
sion, a  new  doubt  overcame  him. 

Was  he  not  desecrating  the  gift  which  had 
brought  consolation  and  absolution  to  many  a 


THE    INDIAN   LILY  4T 

remorseful  heart,  by  sending  it  to  a  girl  who,  for 
all  he  knew,  played  a  sentimental  part  only  as  a 
matter  of  decent  form?  .  .  .  Wasn't  there 
grave  danger  of  her  assuming  an  undue  self-im- 
portance when  she  felt  that  she  was  taken  tragi- 
cally ? 

"Well,  what  did  it  matter?  ...  A  few 
flowers!     .     .     ." 

Early  on  the  evening  of  the  next  day  Meta 
reappeared.  She  was  dressed  in  sombre  black. 
She  wept  persistently  and  made  preparations  to 
stay. 

Niebeldingk  gave  her  to  understand  that,  in 
the  first  place,  he  had  no  more  time  for  her  that 
evening,  and  that,  in  the  second  place,  she  would 
do  well  to  go  home  at  a  proper  hour  and  spare 
herself  the  reproaches  of  her  mother. 

"Oh,  my  little  mother,  my  little  mother,"  she 
wailed.  "How  shall  I  ever  present  myself  to 
her  sight  again?  Keep  me,  my  beloved!  I  can 
never  approach  my  mother  again." 

He  rang  for  his  hat  and  gloves. 

When  she  saw  that  he  was  serious  she  wept  a 
few  more  perfunctory  tears  and  went. 

Her  visits  repeated  themselves  and  didn't  be- 
come any  more  delightful.  On  the  contrary 
.  the  heart-broken  maiden  gave  him  to 
understand  that  her  lost  honour  could  be  restored 
only  by  the  means  of  a  speedy  marriage. 


48  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

This  exhausted  his  patience.  He  saw  that  he 
had  been  thoroughly  taken  in  and  so,  observing 
all  necessary  considerateness,  he  sent  her 
definitely  about  her  business. 

Next  day  the  "little  mother"  appeared  on  the 
scene.  She  was  a  dignified  woman  of  fifty, 
equipped  as  the  Genius  of  Vengeance,  exceed- 
ingly glib  of  tongue  and  by  no  means  senti- 
mental. 

As  she  belonged  to  one  of  the  first  families  of 
Posen,  it  was  her  duty  to  lay  particular  stress 
upon  the  honour  of  her  daughter  whom  he  had 
lured  to  his  house  and  there  wickedly  seduced. 
She  was  prepared  to  repel  any  over- 
tures toward  a  compromise.  She  belonged  to 
one  of  the  best  families  of  Posen  and  was  not 
prepared  to  sell  her  daughter's  virtue.  The  only 
possible  way  of  adjusting  the  matter  was  an  im- 
mediate marriage. 

Thereupon  she  began  to  scream  and  scold  and 
John,  who  acted  as  master  of  ceremonies,  es- 
corted her  with  a  patronising  smile  to  the 
door.     .     .     . 

Next  came  the  visits  of  an  old  gentleman  in  a 
Prince  Albert  and  the  ribbon  of  some  decora- 
tion in  his  button-hole. — John  had  strict  orders 
to  admit  no  strangers.  But  the  old  gentleman 
was  undaunted.  He  came  morning,  noon  and 
niglit   and   finally   settled   down   on   the   stairs 


THE    INDIAN   LILY,  49^ 

where  Niebeldingk  could  not  avoid  meeting  him. 
He  was  the  uncle  of  Miss  Meta,  a  former  serv- 
ant of  the  government  and  a  knight  of  several 
honourable  orders.  As  such  it  was  his  duty  to 
demand  the  immediate  restitution  of  his  niece's 
honour,  else 

Niebeldingk  simply  turned  his  back  and  the 
knight  of  several  honourable  orders  trotted, 
grumbling,  down  the  stairs. 

Up  to  this  point  Niebeldingk  had  striven  to 
regard  the  whole  business  in  a  humorous  light. 
It  now  began  to  promise  serious  annoyance.  He 
told  the  story  at  his  club  and  the  men  laughed 
boisterously,  but  no  one  knew  anything  to  the 
detriment  of  Miss  Meta.  She  had  been  intro- 
duced by  a  lady  who  played  small  parts  at  a 
large  theatre  and  important  parts  at  a  small  one. 
The  lady  was  called  to  account  for  her  protegee. 
She  refused  to  speak. 

"It's  all  the  fault  of  those  accursed  Indian 
lilies,"  Niebeldingk  grumbled  one  afternoon  at 
his  window  as  he  watched  the  knight  of  various 
honourable  orders  parade  the  street  as  undaunted 
as  ever.  "Had  I  treated  her  with  less  dehcacy, 
she  would  never  have  risked  playing  the  part  of 
an  innocent  victim." 

At  that  moment  John  announced  Fritz  von 
Ehrenberg. 

Hie  boy  came  in  dressed  in  an  admirably  fit- 


50  THE    INDIAN    LILY 

ting  summer  suit.  He  was  radiant  with  youth 
and  strength,  victory  gleamed  in  his  eye ;  a  hymn 
of  victory  seemed  silently  singing  on  his  lips. 

"Well  Fritz,  you  seem  merry,"  said  Nie- 
beldingk  and  patted  the  boy's  shoulder.  He 
could  not  suppress  a  smile  of  sad  envy. 

"Don't  ask  me!  Why  shouldn't  I  be  happy? 
Life  is  so  beautiful,  yes,  beautiful.  Only  you 
musn't  have  any  dealings  with  women.  That 
plays  the  deuce  with  one." 

"You  don't  know  yourself  how  right  you  are," 
Niebeldingk  sighed,  looking  out  of  the  corner  of 
an  eye  at  the  knight  of  several  honourable  orders 
who  had  now  taken  up  his  station  in  the  shelter 
of  the  house  opposite. 

"Oh,  but  I  do  know  it,"  Fritz  answered.  "If 
I  could  describe  to  you  the  contempt  with  which 
I  regard  my  former  mode  of  life 
everything  is  different  .  .  .  dijfferent  .  .  . 
so  much  purer  .  .  .  nobler  .  .  .  I'm 
absolutely  a  stoic  now.  .  .  .  And  that  gives 
one  a  feeling  of  such  peace,  such  serenity!  And 
I  have  you  to  thank  for  it,  Herr  von  Nie- 
beldingk." 

"I  don't  understand  that.  To  teach  in  the 
stoa  is  a  new  employment  for  me." 

"Well,  didn't  you  introduce  me  to  that  noble 
lady?    Wasn't  it  you?" 

"Aha,"    said    Niebeldingk.      The   image   of 


THE    INDIAN   LILY  51 

'Alice,  smiling  a  gentle  reproach,  arose  before 
him. 

In  the  midst  of  this  silly  and  sordid  business 
that  had  overtaken  him,  he  had  almost  lost  sight 
of  her.  More  than  a  week  had  passed  since  he 
had  crossed  her  threshold. 

"How  is  the  dear  lady?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  splendid,"  Fritz  said,  "just  splendid." 

"Have  you  seen  her  often?" 

"Certainly,"  Fritz  replied,  "we're  reading 
Marcus  Aurelius  together  now." 

"Thank  heaven,"  Niebeldingk  laughed,  "I  see 
that  she's  well  taken  care  of." 

He  made  up  his  mind  to  see  her  within  the 
next  hour. 

Fritz  who  had  only  come  because  he  needed  to 
overflow  to  some  one  with  the  joy  of  life  that 
was  in  him,  soon  started  to  go. 

At  the  door  he  turned  and  said  timidly  and 
with  downcast  eyes. 

"I  have  one  request  to  make " 

"Fire  away,  Fritz!    How  much?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  need  money  .  .  .  I'd  hke 
to  have  the  address  of  your  florist  .  .  .I'd 
like  to  send  to  the  dear  lady  a  bunch  of  the 
.     the  Indian  lilies." 

"What?    Are  you  mad?"  Niebeldingk  cried. 

"Why  do  you  ask  that?"  Fritz  was  hurt. 
"May  I  not  also  send  that  symbol  to  a  lady 

U.  Cr  ILL  UB. 


52  THE    INDIAN   LILYj 

whose  purity  and  loftiness  of  soul  I  reverence.  I 
suppose  I'm  old  enough!" 

"I  see.  You're  quite  right.  Forgive  me." 
Niebeldingk  bit  his  lips  and  gave  the  lad  the 
address. 

Fritz  thanked  him  and  went. 

Niebeldingk  gave  way  to  his  mirth  and  called 
for  his  hat.  He  wanted  to  go  to  her  at  once. 
But — for  better  or  worse — he  changed  his  mind, 
for  yonder  in  the  gateway,  unabashed,  stood  the 
kni^t  of  several  honourable  orders. 


yii. 

To  be  sure,  one  can't  stand  eternally  in  a 
gateway.  Finally  the  knight  deserted  his  post 
and  vanished  into  a  sausage  shop.  The  hour  had 
come  when  even  the  most  glowing  passion  of 
revenge  fades  gently  into  a  passion  for  supper. 

Niebeldingk  who  had  waited  behind  his  cur- 
tain, half -amused,  half-bored — for  in  the  silent, 
distinguished  street  where  everyone  knew  him  a 
scandal  was  to  be  avoided  at  any  cost — Nie- 
beldingk hastened  to  make  up  for  his  neglect  at 
once. 

The  dark  fell.  Here  and  there  the  street- 
lamps  flickered  through  the  purple  air  of  the 
summer  dusk.    .     .     . 

The  maid  who  opened  the  door  looked  at  him 
with  cool  astonishment  as  though  he  were  half 
a  stranger  who  had  the  audacity  to  pay  a  call  at 
this  intimate  hour. 

"That  means  a  scolding,"  he  thought. 

But  he  was  mistaken. 

Smiling  quietly,  Alice  arose  from  the  couch 
where  she  had  been  sitting  by  the  light  of  a 
shaded  lamp  and  stretched  out  her  hand  with  all 
her  old  kindliness. 

53 


54  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

The  absence  of  the  otherwise  inevitable  book 
was  the  only  change  that  struck  him. 

"We  haven't  seen  each  other  for  a  long  time," 
he  said,  making  a  wretched  attempt  at  an  ex- 
planation. 

"Is  it  so  long?"  she  asked  frankly. 

"Thank  you  for  your  gentle  punishment."  He 
kissed  her  hand.  Then  he  chatted,  more  or  less 
at  random,  of  disagreeable  business  matters,  of 
preparations  for  a  journey,  and  so  forth. 

"So  you  are  going  away?"  she  asked  tensely. 

The  word  had  escaped  him,  he  scarcely  knew 
how.  Now  that  he  had  uttered  it,  however,  he 
saw  very  clearly  that  nothing  better  remained  for 
him  to  do  than  to  carry  the  casual  thought  into 
action.  .  .  .  Here  he  passed  a  fruitless, 
enervating  life,  slothful,  restless  and  humiliat- 
ing; at  home  there  awaited  him  light,  useful 
work,  dreamless  sleep,  and  the  tonic  sense  of 
being  the  master. 

All  that,  in  other  days,  held  him  in  Berlin, 
namely,  this  modest,  clever,  flexible  woman  had 
almost  passed  from  his  life.  Steady  neglect  had 
done  its  work.  If  he  went  now,  scarcely  the 
smallest  gap  would  be  torn  into  the  fabric  of  his 
life. 

Or  did  it  only  seem  so?  Was  she  more  deeply 
rooted  in  his  heart  than  he  had  ever  confessed 
even  to  himself? 


V"- 


THE    INDIAN   LILY  55 

They  were  both  silent.  She  stood  very  near 
him  and  sought  to  read  the  answer  to  her  ques- 
tion in  his  eyes.  A  kind  of  anxious  joy  appeared 
upon  her  shghtly  worn  features. 

"I'm  needed  at  home,"  he  said  at  last.  "It  is 
high  time  for  me.  If  you  desire  I'll  look  after 
your  affairs  too." 

"Mine?    Where?" 

"Well,  I  thought  we  were  neighbours  there — 
more  than  here.  Or  have  you  forgotten  the  es- 
tate?" 

"Let  us  leave  aside  the  matter  of  being  neigh- 
bours," she  answered,  "and  I  don't  suppose  that 
I  have  much  voice  in  the  management  of  the 
estate  as  long  as — ^he  lives.  The  guardians  will 
see  to  that." 

"But  you  could  run  down  there  once  in  a 
while  ...  in  the  smnmer  for  instance. 
Your  place  is  always  ready  for  you.  I  saw  to 
that." 

"Ah,  yes,  you  saw  to  that."  The  wistful  irony 
that  he  had  so  often  noted  was  visible  again. 

For  the  first  time  he  understood  its  meaning. 

"She  has  made  things  too  easy  for  me,"  he  re- 
flected. "I  should  have  felt  my  chains.  Then, 
too,  I  would  have  realised  what  I  possessed  in 
her." 

But  did  he  not  still  possess  her?  What,  after 
all,  had  changed  since  those  days  of  quiet  com- 


56  THE    INDIAN   LILY, 

panionship  ?  Why  should  he  think  of  her  as  lost 
to  him  ? 

He  could  not  answer  this  question.  But  he 
felt  a  dull  restlessness.  A  sense  of  estrangement 
told  him:    All  is  not  here  as  it  was. 

"Since  when  do  vou  live  in  dreams,  Alice?" 
he  asked,  surveying  the  empty  table  by  which  he 
had  found  her. 

His  question  had  been  innocent,  but  it  seemed 
to  carry  a  sting.  She  blushed  and  looked  past 
him. 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Good  heavens,  to  sit  all  evening  without 
books  and  let  the  light  burn  in  vain — ^that  was 
not  your  wont  heretofore." 

"Oh,  that's  it.  Ah  well,  one  can't  be  poking 
in  books  all  the  time.  And  for  the  past  few  days 
my  eyes  have  been  aching." 

"With  secret  tears?"  he  teased. 

She  gave  him  a  wide,  serious  look. 

"With  secret  tears,"  she  repeated. 

''Ah  perfido!"  he  trilled,  in  order  to  avoid  the 
scene  which  he  feared.  .  .  .  But  he  was  on 
the  wrong  scent.  She  herself  interrupted  him 
with  the  question  whether  he  would  stay  to 
supper. 

He  was  curious  to  find  the  causes  of  the 
changes  that  he  felt  here.    For  that  reason  and 


THE    INDIAN   LILY,  57 

also  because  he  was  not  without  compunction,  he 
consented  to  stay. 

She  rang  and  ordered  a  second  cover  to  be 
laid. 

Louise  looked  at  her  mistress  with  a  disap- 
proving glance  and  went. 

"Dear  me,"  he  laughed,  "the  servants  are 
against  me     ...     I  am  lost." 

"You  have  taken  to  noticing  such  things  very 
recently."    She  gave  a  perceptible  shrug. 

"When  a  wife  tells  a  husband  of  his  newly  ac- 
quired habits,  he  is  doubly  lost,"  he  answered  and 
gave  her  his  arm. 

The  silver  gleamed  on  the  table  .  .  .  the 
tea-kettle  puflPed  out  dehcate  clouds  .  .  .  ex- 
quisitely tinted  apples,  firm  as  in  Autumn, 
smiled  at  him. 

A  word  of  admiration  escaped  him.  And 
then,  once  more,  he  saw  that  tragic  smile  on  her 
lips — sad,  wistful,  almost  compassionate. 

"My  darling,"  he  said  with  sudden  tenderness 
and  caressed  her  shoulder. 

She  nodded  and  smiled.    That  was  all. 

At  table  her  mood  was  an  habitual  one.  Per- 
haps she  was  a  trifle  gentler.  He  attributed 
that  to  his  approaching  departure. 

She  drank  a  glass  of  Madeira  at  the  beginning 
of  the  meal,  the  light  Rhine  wine  she  took  in 


58  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

• 

long,  thirsty  draughts,  she  even  touched  the 
brandy  at  the  meal's  end. 

An  inner  fire  flared  in  her.  He  suspected  that, 
he  felt  it.  She  had  touched  no  food.  But  she 
permitted  nothing  to  appear  on  the  surface.  On 
the  contrary,  the  emotional  warmth  that  she  had 
shown  earlier  disappeared.  The  play  of  her 
thoughts  grew  cooler,  clearer,  more  cutting,  the 
longer  she  talked. 

Twice  or  thrice  quotations  from  Goethe  were 
about  to  escape  her,  but  she  did  not  utter  them. 
Smiling  she  tapped  her  own  lips. 

When  he  observed  that  she  was  really  restrain- 
ing a  genuine  impulse  he  begged  her  to  consider 
the  protest  he  had  once  uttered  as  merely  a  jest, 
perhaps  even  an  ill-considered  one.  But  she  said: 
"Let  be,  it  is  as  well." 

They  conversed,  as  they  had  often  done,  of  the 
perished  days  of  their  old  love.  They  spoke  like 
two  beings  who  have  long  conquered  all  the 
struggles  of  the  heart  arid  who,  in  the  calm  har- 
bour of  friendship,  regard  with  equanimity  the 
storms  which  they  have  weathered. 

This  way  of  speaking  had  gradually,  and  with 
a  kind  of  jocular  moroseness,  crept  into  their 
intercourse.  The-  exciting  thing  about  it 
was  the  silent  reservation  felt  by  both:  We 
know  how  different  things  could  be,  so  soon  as 
we  desired. 


■y'sr^-m-^: ^'--^  ^'^  ■■■:  '■»  :■ '- 


THE    INDIAN   LILY  59 

To-day,  for  the  first  time,  this  game  at  renun- 
ciation seemed  to  become  serious. 

"How  strange!"  he  thought.  "Here  we  sit 
who  are  dearest  to  each  other  in  all  the  world 
and  a  kind  of  futile  arrogance  drives  us  farther 
and  farther  apart." 

Alice  arose. 

He  kissed  her,  as  was  his  wont,  upon  hand 
and  forehead  and  noted  how  she  turned  aside 
with  a  slight  shiver.  Then  suddenly  she  took  his 
head  in  both  her  hands  and  kissed  him  full  on  the 
lips  with  a  kind  of  desperate  eagerness. 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  "what  is  that?  It's  more  than 
I  have  a  right  to  expect." 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said,  withdrawing  herself 
at  once.  "We're  poverty  stricken  folk  and 
haven't  much  to  give  each  other.'* 

"After  what  I  have  just  experienced,  I'm  in- 
clined to  believe  the  contrary." 

But  she  seemed  httle  inchned  to  draw  the  logi- 
cal consequences  of  her  action.  Quietly  she  gave 
him  his  wonted  cigarette,  lit  her  own,  and  sat 
down  in  her  old  place.  With  rounded  lips  she 
blew  little  clouds  of  smoke  against  the  table- 
cover. 

"Whenever  I  regard  you  in  this  manner,"  he 
said,  carefully  feeling  his  way,  "it  always  seems 
to  me  that  you  have  some  silent  reservation,  as 
though  you  were  waiting  for  something." 


■/' 


no  THE   INDIAN   LILYi 

"It  may  be,"  she  answered,  blushing  anew,  "I 
sit  by  the  way-side,  like  the  man  in  the  story, 
and  think  of  the  coming  of  my  fate." 

"Fate?    What  fate?" 

"Ah,  who  can  tell,  dear  friend?  That  which 
one  foresees  is  no  longer  one's  fate!" 

"Perhaps  it's  just  the  other  way." 

She  drew  back  sharply  and  looked  past  him 
in  tense  thoughtfulness.  "Perhaps  you  are 
right,"  she  said,  with  a  little  mysterious  sigh. 
"It  may  be  as  you  say." 

He  was  no  wiser  than  he  had  been.  But  since 
he  held  it  beneath  his  dignity  to  assume  the  part 
of  the  jealous  master,  he  abandoned  the  search 
for  her  secrets  with  a  shrug.  The  secrets  could 
be  of  no  great  importance.  No  one  knew  better 
than  himself  the  moderateness  of  her  desires,  no 
lover,  in  calm  possession  of  his  beloved,  had  so 
little  to  fear  as  he. 

They  discussed  their  plans  for  the  Summer. 
He  intended  to  go  to  the  North  Sea  in  Autumn, 
an  old  affection  attracted  her  to  Thuringia.  The 
possibility  of  their  meeting  was  touched  only  in 
so  far  as  courtesy  demanded  it. 

And  once  more  silence  fell  upon  the  Uttle 
drawing-room.  Through  the  twilight  an  old, 
phantastic  Empire  clock  announced  the  hurry- 
ing minutes  with  a  hoarse  tick. 

In  other  days  a  magical  mood  had  often  filled 


THE    INDIAN  LILYj  61 

this  room— the  presage  of  an  exquisite  flame 
and  its  happy  death.  All  that  had  vibrated 
here.  Nothing  remained.  They  had  little  to 
say  to  each  other.  That  was  what  time 
had  left. 

He  played  thoughtfully  with  his  cigarette. 
She  stared  into  nothingness  with  great,  dreamy 
eyes. 

And  suddenly  she  began  to  weep.     .      . 
He  almost  doubted  his  own  perception,  but  the 
great  glittering  tears  ran  softly  down  her  smil- 
ing face. 

But  he  was  satiated  with  women's  tears.  In 
the  fleeting  amatory  adventures  of  the  past 
weeks  and  months,  he  had  seen  so  many — some 
genuine,  some  sham,  all  superfluous.  And  so  in- 
stead of  consoling  her,  he  conceived  a  feeling  of 
sarcasm  and  nausea:  "Now  even  she  carries 
onl".     .     .     . 

The  idea  did  indeed  flash  into  his  mind  that 
this  moment  might  be  decisive  and  pregnant  with 
the  fate  of  the  future,  but  his  horror  of  scenes  and 
explanations  restrained  liim. 

Wearily  he  assumed  the  attitude  of  one  above 
the  storms  of  the  soul  and  sought  a  jest  with 
which  to  recall  her  to  herself.  But  before  he 
found  it  she  pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes 
and  slipped  from  the  room. 

"So  much  the  better,"  he  thought  and  lit  m 


02  THE    INDIAN   LILYj 

fresh  cigarette.  "If  she  lets  her  passion  spend 
itself  in  silence  it  will  pass  the  more  swiftly." 

Walking  up  and  down  he  indulged  in 
philosophic  reflections  concerning  the  useless 
emotionality  of  woman,  and  the  duty  of  man  not 
to  be  infected  by  it.  .  .  .  He  grew  quite 
warm  in  the  proud  consciousness  of  his  heart's 
coldness. 

Then  suddenly — from  the  depth  of  the  silence 
that  was  about  him — resounded  in  a  long-drawn, 
shrill,  whirring  voice  that  he  had  never  heard — 
his  own  name. 

"Rrricharrd !"  it  shrilled,  stern  and  hard  as  the 
command  of  some  paternal  martinet.  The  voice 
seemed  to  come  from  subterranean  depths. 

He  shivered  and  looked  about.  Nothing 
moved.  There  was  no  living  soul  in  the  next 
room. 

"Richard!"  the  voice  sounded  a  second  time. 
This  time  the  sound  seemed  but  a  few  paces  from 
him,  but  it  arose  from  the  ground  as  though  a 
teasing  goblin  lay  under  his  chair. 

He  bent  over  and  peered  into  dark  corners. 

The  mystery  was  solved :  Joko,  Alice's  parrot, 
having  secretly  stolen  from  his  quarters,  sat  on 
the  rung  of  a  chair  and  played  the  evil  conscience 
of  the  house. 

The  tame  animal  stepped  with  dignity  upon 
his  outstretched  hand  and  permitted  itself  to  be 


THE    INDIAN   LILY  63 

lifted  into  the  light.  .  .  .  Its  glittering  neck- 
feathers  stood  up,  and  while  it  whetted  its  beak 
on  Niebeldingk's  cuff-links,  it  repeated  in  a  most 
subterranean  voice :  "Richard !" 

And  suddenly  the  dear  f  eehng  of  belonging 
here,  of.  being  at  home  came  over  Niebeldingk. 
He  had  all  but  lost  it.  But  its  gentle  power 
drew  him  on  and  refreshed  him. 

It  was  his  right  and  his  duty  to  be  at  home 
here  where  a  dear  woman  lived  so  exclusively  for 
him  that  the  voice  of  her  yearning  sounded  even 
from  the  tongue  of  the  brute  beast  that  she  pos- 
sessed! There  was  no  possibility  of  feeling  free 
and  alien  here. 

"I  must  find  her!"  he  thought  quickly,  "I 
musn't  leave  her  alone  another  second." 

He  set  Joko  carefully  on  the  table  and  sought 
to  reach  her  bedroom  which  he  had  never  en- 
tered by  this  approach. 

In  the  door  that  led  to  the  rear  haU  she  met 
him.  Her  demeanour  had  its  accustomed  calm, 
her  eyes  were  clear  and  dry. 

"My  poor,  dear  darling!"  he  cried  and  wanted 
to  take  her  in  his  arms. 

A  strange,  repelling  glance  met  him  and  in- 
terrupted his  beautiful  emotion.  Something 
hardened  in  him  and  he  felt  a  new  inclination  to 
sarcasm. 

"Forgive  me  for  leaving  you,"  she  said,  "one 


64  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

must  have  patience  with  the  folly  of  my  sex. 
You  know  that  well." 

And  she  preceded  him  to  his  old  place. 

Screaming  with  pleasure  Joko  flew  forward 
to  meet  her,  and  Niebeldingk  remained  stand- 
ing to  take  his  leave. 

She  did  not  hold  him  back. 

Outside  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  hadn't  told 
her  the  anecdote  of  Fritz  and  the  Indian  lilies. 

"It's  a  pity,'*  he  thought,  "it  might  have 
cheered  her."     .     .     . 


yiii. 

Next  morning  Niebeldingk  sat  at  his  desk 
and  reflected  with  considerable  discomfort  on  the 
experience  of  the  previous  evening.  Suddenly 
he  observed,  across  the  street,  restlessly  waiting 
in  the  same  doorway — the  avenging  spirit! 

It  was  an  opportune  moment.  It  would  dis- 
tract him  to  make  an  example  of  the  fellow. 
Nothing  better  could  have  happened. 

He  rang  for  John  and  ordered  him  to  bring 
up  the  wretched  fellow  and,  furthermore,  to  hold 
himself  in  readiness  for  an  act  of  vigorous  ex- 
pulsion. 

Five  minutes  passed.  Then  the  door  opened 
and,  diffidently,  but  with  a  kind  of  professional 
dignity,  the  knight  of  several  honourable  orders 
entered  the  room. 

Niebeldingk  made  rapid  observations:  A' 
beardless,  weatherworn  old  face  with  pointed, 
stiff,  white  brows.  The  little,  watery  eyes  knew 
how  toliide  their  cunning,  for  nothing  was  visible 
in  them  save  an  expression  of  wonder  and  con- 
sternation. The  black  frock  coat  was  threadbare 
but  clean,  his  linen  was  spotless.     He  wore  a 

65 


66  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

stock  which  had  been  the  last  word  of  fashion  at 
the  time  of  the  July  revolution. 

"A  sharper  of  the  most  sophisticated  sort,'* 
Niebeldingk  concluded. 

"Before  any  discussion  takes  place,"  he  said 
sharply.  "I  must  know  with  whom  I  am  deal- 
mg. 

The  old  man  drew  off  with  considerable  diffi- 
culty his  torn,  gray,  funereal  gloves  and,  from 
the  depths  of  a  greasy  pocket-book,  produced  a 
card  which  had,  evidently,  passed  through  a  good 
many  hands. 

"A  sharper,"  Niebeldingk  repeated  to  himself, 
"but  on  a  pretty  low  plane."  He  read  the  card : 
"Kohleman,  retired  clerk  of  court."  And 
below  was  printed  the  addition:  "Knight  of  sev- 
eral orders." 

"What  decorations  have  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  been  very  graciously  granted  the 
Order  of  the  Crown,  fourth  class,  and  the  gen- 
eral order  for  good  behaviour." 

"Sit  down,"  Niebeldingk  replied,  impelled  by 
a  slight  instinctive  respect. 

"Thank  you,  I'll  take  the  liberty,"  the  old 
gentleman  answered  and  sat  down  on  the  ex- 
treme edge  of  a  chair. 

"Once  on  the  stairs  you "  he  was  about  to 

say  "attacked  me,"  but  he  repressed  the  words. 
"I  know,"  he  began,  "what  your  business  is.  And 


THE    IXDIAX   LILY  67 

now  tell  me  frankly :  Do  you  think  any  man  in 
the  world  such  a  fool  as  to  contemplate  marriage 
because  a  frivolous  young  thing  whose  acquaint- 
ance he  made  at  a  supper  given  to  'cocottes'  ac- 
companies him,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  to  his 
bachelor  quarters?  Do  you  think  that  a  reason- 
able proposition?" 

"No,"  the  old  gentleman  answered  with  touch- 
ing honesty.  "But  you  know  it's  pretty  dis- 
couraging to  have  Meta  get  into  that  kind  of  a 
mess.  I've  had  my  suspicions  for  some  time  that 
that  baggage  is  a  keener,  and  I've  often  said  to 
my  sister:  *Look  here,  these  theatrical  women  are 
no  proper  company  for  a  girl '  " 

"Well  then,"  Xiebeldingk  exclaimed,  over- 
come with  astonishment,  "if  that's  the  case,  what 
are  you  after?" 

"I?"  the  old  gentleman  quavered  and  pointed 
a  funereal  glove  at  his  breast,  "I?  Oh,  dear 
sakes  alive!  I'm  not  after  anything.  Do  you 
imagine,  my  dear  sir,  that  I  get  any  fun  out  of 
tramping  up  and  down  in  front  of  your  house 
on  my  old  legs?  I'd  rather  sit  in  a  comer  and 
leave  strange  people  to  their  own  business.  But 
what  can  I  do?  I  live  in  mv  sister's  house,  and 
I  do  pay  her  a  little  board,  for  I'd  never  take  a 
present,  not  a  penny — ^that  was  never  my  way. 
But  what  I  pay  isn't  much,  you  know,  and  so  I 
have  to  make  myself  a  bit  useful  in  the  boarding- 


68  THE    INDIAN   LILY. 

house.  The  ladies  have  little  errands,  you  know. 
And  they're  quite  nice,  too,  except  that  they  get 
as  nasty  as  can  be  if  their  rooms  aren't  promptly 
cleaned  in  the  morning,  and  so  I  help  with  the 
dusting,  too.  ...  If  only  it  weren't  for  my 
asthma.  .  .,  .  I  tell,  you,  asthma,  my  dear 
sir " 

He  stopped  for  an  attack  of  coughing  choked 
him. 

With  a  sudden  kindly  emotion  Niebeldingk 
regarded  the  terrible  avenger  in  horror  of  whom 
he  had  lived  four  mortal  days.  He  told  him  to 
stretch  his  poor  old  legs  and  asked  him  whether 
he'd  like  a  glass  of  Madeira. 

The  old  gentleman's  face  brightened.  If  it 
would  surely  give  no  trouble  he  would  take  the 
liberty  of  accepting. 

Niebeldingk  rang  and  John  entered  with  a 
grand  inquisitorial  air.  He  recoiled  when  he 
saw  the  monster  so  comfortable  and,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  service,  permitted  himself  a  gentle 
shake  of  the  head. 

The  old  gentleman  emptied  his  glass  in  one 
gulp  and  wiped  his  mouth  with  a  brownish  cotton 
handkerchief.  Fragments  of  tobacco  flew  about. 
He  looked  so  tenderly  at  the  destroyer  of  his 
family  as  though  he  had  a  sneaking  desire  to 
Ijoin  the  enemy. 

'\Well,  well,"  he  began  again.    "What's  to  be 


THE    INDIAN   LILY]  69 

done?  If  my  sister  takes  something  into  her 
head.  .  .  .  And  anyhow,  I'll  tell  you  in  con- 
fidence, she  is  a  devil.  Oh  deary  me,  what  I 
have  to  put  up  with  from  her!  It's  no  good 
getting  into  trouble  with  her!  ...  If  you 
want  to  avoid  any  unpleasantness,  I  can  only 
advise  you  to  consent  right  away.  .  .  .  You 
can  back  out  later.  ,  .  .  But  that  would  be 
the  easiest  way." 

Niebeldingk  laughed  heartily. 

"Yes,  you  can  laugh,"  the  old  gentleman  said 
sadly,  "that's  because  you  don't  know  my  sister." 

"But  you  know  her,  my  dear  man. 
And  do  you  suppose  that  she  may  have  other, 
that  is  to  sav,  financial  aims,  while  she " 

The  old  gentleman  looked  at  him  with  great 
scared  eyes. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  he  said  and  crushed  the 
brown  handkerchief  in  his  hollow  hand. 

"Well,  well,  well,"  Niebeldingk  quieted  him 
and  poured  a  reconciling  second  glass  of  wine. 

But  he  wasn't  to  be  bribed, 

"Permit  me,  my  dear  sir,"  he  said,  **but  you 
misunderstand  me  entirely.  .  .  .  Even  if  I 
do  help  my  sister  in  the  house,  and  even  if  I  do 
go  on  errands,  I  would  never  have  consented  to 
go  on  such  an  one.  ...  I  said  to  my  sister : 
It's  marriage  or  nothing.  .  .  .  We  don't  go 
in  for  blackmail,  of  that  you  may  be  sure." 


70  THE    INDIAN   LILY, 

M,  my  dear  man,"  Niebeldingk  laughed, 
'If  that's  the  alternative,  then — nothing!" 

The  o^d  gentleman  grew  quite  peaceable  again. 

"Goodness  knows,  you're  quite  right.  But  you 
will  have  unpleasantnesses.  Mark  my  word. 
.  And  if  she  has  to  appeal  to  the  Em- 
peror, my  sister  said.  And  mj^  sister — I  men- 
tion it  quite  in  confidence — my  sister " 

"Is  a  devil,  I  understand." 

"Exactly." 

He  laughed  slyly  as  one  who  is  getting  even 
with  an  old  enemy  and  drank,  with  every  evi- 
dence of  delight,  the  second  glassful  of  wine. 

Niebeldingk  considered.  Whether  unfathom- 
able stupidity  or  equally  unfathomable  sophisti- 
cation lay  at  the  bottom  of  all  this — ^the  business 
was  a  wretched  one.  It  was  just  such  an  affair 
as  would  be  dragged  through  every  scandal 
mongering  paper  in  the  city,  thoroughly 
equipped,  of  course,  with  the  necessary  moral 
decoration.  He  could  almost  see  the  heavy  head- 
lines:   Rascality  of  a  Nobleman. 

"Yes,  yes,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  and 
patted  the  terrible  enemy's  shoulder,  "I  tell  you 
it's  a  dog's  life.  If  you  can  avoid  it  any  way — 
never  go  in  for  fast  living." 

The  old  gentleman  shook  his  gray  head  sadly. 

"That's  all  over,"  he  declared,  "but  twenty 
years  ago " 


THE   INDIAN  LILY  71 

Niebeldingk  cut  short  the  approaching  con- 
fidences. 

"Well,  what's  going  to  happen  now?"  he 
asked.  "And  what  will  your  sister  do  when  you 
come  home  and  announce  my  refusal?" 

"I'll  tell  you,  Baron.  In  fact,  my  sister  re- 
quired that  I  should  tell  you,  because  that  is  to 
— "  he  giggled — "that  is  to  have  a  profound 
effect.  We've  got  a  nephew,  I  must  tell  you, 
who's  a  lieutenant  in  the  armv.  Well,  he  is  to 
come  at  once  and  challenge  you  to  a  duel.  .  .  . 
Well,  now,  a  duel  is  always  a  pretty  nasty  piece 
of  business.  First,  there's  the  scandal,  and  then, 
one  might  get  hurt.  And  so  my  sister  thought 
that  you'd  rather " 

"Hold  on,  my  excellent  friend,"  said  Nie- 
beldingk and  a  great  weight  rolled  from  his 
heart.  "You  have  an  officer  in  your  family? 
That's  splendid  ...  I  couldn't  ask  any- 
thing better  .  .  .  You  wire  him  at  once  and 
tell  him  that  I'll  be  at  home  three  days  running 
and  ready  to  give  him  the  desired  explana- 
tions. I'm  sorry  for  the  poor  fellow  for  being 
mixed  up  in  such  a  stupid  mess,  but  I  can't  help 
him." 

"Why  do  you  feel  sorry  for  him?"  the  old 
gentleman  asked.  "He's  as  good  a  marksman  as 
you  are." 

"Assuredly,"    Niebeldingk    returned.      "As- 


72  THE    INDIAN   LILY 

suredly  a  better  one  .  .  .  Only  it  won't 
come  to  that." 

He  conducted  his  visitor  with  great  ceremony 
into  the  outer  hall. 

The  latter  remained  standing  for  a  moment  in 
the  door.  He  grasped  Niebeldingk's  hand  with 
overflowing  friendliness. 

"My  dear  baron,  you  have  been  so  nice  to  me 
and  so  courteous.  Permit  me,  in  return,  to  offer 
you  an  old  man's  counsel:  Be  more  careful 
about  flowers!" 

"What  flowers?" 

"Well,  you  sent  a  great,  costly  bunch  of  them. 
That's  what  first  attracted  my  sister's  attention. 
And  when  my  sister  gets  on  the  track  of  any- 
thing, well!"     . 

He  shook  with  pleasure  at  the  sly  blow  he 
had  thus  delivered,  drew  those  funereal  gloves  of 
his  from  the  crown  of  his  hat  and  took  his 
leave. 

"So  it  was  the  fault  of  the  Indian  lilies,"  Nie- 
beldingk  thought,  looking  after  the  queer  old 
knight  with  an  amused  imprecation.  That 
gentleman,  enlivened  by  the  wine  he  had  taken, 
pranced  with  a  new  flexibility  along  the  side- 
walk. "Like  the  count  in  Don  Juan"  Nie- 
beldingk  thought,  "only  newly  equipped  and 
modernised." 

The  intervention  of  the  young  ofiicer  placed 


THE    INDIAN   LILY  73 

the  whole  affair  upon  an  intelligible  basis.  It 
remained  only  to  treat  it  with  entire  seriousness. 
Niebeldingk,  according  to  his  promise,  re- 
mained at  home  until  sunset  for  three  boresome 
days.  On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  he  wrote  a 
letter  to  the  excellent  old  gentleman  telling  him 
that  he  was  tired  of  waiting  and  requesting  an 
immediate  settlement  of  the  business  in  question. 
Thereupon  he  received  the  following  answer: 

"Sir:— 

In  the  name  of  my  family  I  declare  to  you 
herewith  that  I  give  you  over  to  the  well-de- 
served contempt  of  your  f  ellowmen.  A  man  who 
can  hesitate  to  restore  the  honour  of  a  loving  and 
yielding  girl  is  not  worthy  of  an  alliance  with 
our  family.  Hence  we  now  sever  any  further 
connection  with  you. 

With  that  measure  of  esteem  which  vou  de- 
serve, 

I  am, 

KoHLEMAN,  Retired  Clerk  of  Court. 

Knight  S.  H.  O. 
P.  S. 

Best  regards.  Don't  mind  all  that  talk.  The 
duel  came  to  nothing.  Our  little  lieutenant  be- 
sought us  not  to  ruin  him  and  asked  that  his 
name  be  not  mentioned.    He  has  left  town." 

Breathing  a  deep  sigh  of  relief,  Niebeldingk 
threw  the  letter  aside. 

Now  that  the  affair  was  about  to  float  into 


■■■#^' 


74  THE   INDIAN   LILY 

oblivion,  he  became  aware  of  the  fact  that  it  bad 
weighed  most  heavily  upon  him. 

And  he  began  to  feel  ashamed. 

He,  a  man  who,  by  virtue  of  his  name  and  of 
his  wealth  and,  if  he  would  be  bold,  by  virtue  of 
his  intellect,  was  able  to  live  in  some  noble  and 
distinguished  way — he  passed  his  time  with 
banalities  that  were  half  sordid  and  half  humor- 
ous. These  things  had  their  place.  Youth 
might  find  them  not  unfruitful  of  experience. 
They  degraded  a  man  of  forty. 

If  these  things  filled  his  life  to-day,  then  the 
years  of  training  and  slow  maturing  had  surely 
gone  for  nothing.  And  what  would  become  of 
him  if  he  carried  these  interests  into  his  old  age? 
His  schoolmates  were  masters  of  the  great 
sciences,  distinguished  servants  of  the  govern- 
ment, influential  politicians.  They  toiled  in 
the  sweat  of  their  brows  and  harvested  the  fruits 
of  their  youth's  sowing. 

He  strove  to  master  these  discomforting 
thoughts,  but  every  moment  found  him  more  de- 
fenceless against  them. 

And  shame  changed  into  disgust. 

To  divert  himself  he  went  out  into  the  streets 
and  landed,  finally,  in  the  rooms  of  his  club. 
Here  he  was  asked  concerning  his  latest  adven- 
ture. Only  a  certain  respect  which  his  person- 
ality inspired  saved  him  from  unworthy  jests. 


THE   INDIAN  LILYj  75 

And  in  this  poverty-stricken  world,  where  the 
very  lees  of  experience  amounted  to  a  sensation 
— ^here  he  wasted  his  days. 

It  must  not  last  another  week,  not  another 
day.    So  much  suddenly  grew  clear  to  him. 

He  hurried  away.  Upon  the  streets  brooded 
the  heat  of  early  summer.  Masses  of  human  be- 
ings, hot  but  happy,  passed  him  in  silent  ac- 
tivity. 

What  was  he  to  do? 

He  must  marry:  that  admitted  of  no  doubt. 
In  the  glow  of  his  own  hearth  he  must  begin  a 
new  and  more  tonic  life. 

Marry?  But  whom?  A  worn  out  heart  can 
no  longer  be  made  to  beat  more  swiftly  at  the 
sight  of  some  slim  maiden.  The  senses  might 
yet  be  stirred,  but  that  is  all. 

Was  he  to  haunt  watering-places  and  pay 
court  to  mothers  on  the  man-hunt  in  order  to 
find  favour  in  their  daughters'  eyes  ?  Was  he  to 
travel  from  estate  to  estate  and  alienate  the  af- 
fection of  young  chatelaines  from  their  favourite 
lieutenants? 

Impossible! 

He  went  home  hopelessly  enough  and  drowsed 
away  the  hours  of  the  afternoon  behind  drawn 
blinds  on  a  hot  couch. 

Toward  evening  the  postman  brought  a  letter 
— ^in  Alice's  hand. 


76  THE    INDIAN    LILY 

Alice!  How  could  he  have  forgotten  her  I 
His  first  duty  should  have  been  to  see  her. 

He  opened  the  envelope,  warmly  grateful  for 
her  mere  existence. 

"Dear  Friend: — 

As  you  will  probably  not  find  time  before  you 
leave  the  city  to  bid  me  farewell  in  person,  I 
beg  you  to  return  to  me  a  certain  key  which  I 
gave  into  your  keeping  some  years  ago.  You 
have  no  need  of  it  and  it  worries  me  to  have  it 
lying  about. 

Don't  think  that  I  am  at  all  angry.  My 
friendship  and  my  gratitude  are  yours,  however 
far  and  long  we  may  be  separated.  When,  some 
day,  we  meet  again,  we  will  both  have  become 
different  beings.  With  many  blessings  upon 
your  way, 

Alice." 

He  struck  his  forehead  like  a  man  who 
awakens  from  an  obscene  dream. 

Where  was  his  mind?  He  was  about  to  go  in 
search  of  that  which  was  so  close  at  hand,  so 
richly  his  own! 

Where  else  in  all  the  world  could  he  find  a 
w^oman  so  exquisitely  tempered  to  his  needs,  so 
intimately  responsive  to  his  desires,  one  who 
would  lead  him  into  the  darker  land  of  matri- 
mony through  meadows  of  laughing  flowers  ? 

To  be  sure,  there  was  her  coolness  of  temper. 


.i-^^jSfWji^ffr^-i^  ■ 


THE   INDIAN  LILY  77 

her  learning,  her  strange  restlessness.  But  was 
not  all  that  undergoing  a  change?  Had  he  not 
found  her  sunk  in  dreams?  And  her  tears? 
And  her  kiss?  * 

Ungrateful  wretch  that  he  was! 

He  had  sought  a  home  and  not  thought  of  the 
parrot  who  screamed  out  his  name  in  her  dear 
dwelling.  There  was  a  parrot  like  that  in  the 
world — and  he  wandered  foolishly  abroad. 
|What  madness !    What  baseness ! 

He  would  go  to  her  at  once. 

But  no!  A  merry  thought  struck  him  and  a 
healing  one. 

He  took  the  key  from  the  wall  and  put  it  into 
his  pocket. 

He  would  go  to  her — at  midnight. 


r 
u 


IX. 

He  had  definitely  abandoned  his  club,  the 
theatres  were  closed,  the  restaurants  were  de- 
serted, his  brother's  family  was  in  the  country. 
.  .  .  It  was  not  easy  to  pass  the  evening 
with  that  great  resolve  in  his  heart  and  that  small 
key  in  his  pocket. 

Until  ten  he  drifted  about  under  the  foliage 
of  the  Tiergarten.  He  listened  to  the  murmur 
of  couples  who  thronged  the  dark  benches,  re- 
garded those  who  were  quietly  walking  in  the 
alleys  and  found  himself,  presently,  in  that 
stream  of  humanity  which  is  drawn  irresistibly 
toward  the  brightly  illuminated  pleasure  resorts. 

He  was  moved  and  happy  at  once.  For  the 
first  time  in  years  he  felt  himself  to  be  a  member 
of  the  family  of  man,  a  humbly  serv  ing  brother 
in  the  commonweal  of  social  purpose. 

His  time  of  proud,  individualistic  morality 
was  over:  the  ever-blessing  institution  of  the 
family  was  about  to  gather  him  to  its  hospitable 
bosom. 

To  be  sure,  his  wonted  scepticism  was  not 
utterly  silenced.    But  he  drove  it  away;  with  a 

78 


THE    INDIAN  LILY  79 

feeling  of  delighted  comfort.  He  could  have 
shouted  a  blessing  to  the  married  couples  in 
search  of  air,  he  could  have  given  a  word  of 
fatherly  advice  to  the  couples  on  the  benches: 
"Children,  commit  no  indiscretions — ^marry!" 

And  when  he  thought  of  her!  A  mild  and 
peaceable  tenderness  of  which  he  had  never 
thought  himself  capable  welled  up  from  his  arid 
heart.  .  .  .  Wide  gardens  of  Paradise 
seemed  to  open,  gardens  with  secret  grottos  and 
shady  corners.  And  upon  one  of  the  palm-trees 
there  sat  Joko — amiable  beast — and  said: 
"Rrricharrrd!" 

He  went  over  the  coming  scene  in  his  imagina- 
tion again  and  again:  Her  little  cry  of  panic 
when  he  would  enter  the  dark  room  and  then  his 
whispered  reassurance:  "It  is  I,  my  darling. 
I  have  come  back  to  stay  for  ever  and  ever." 

And  then  happiness,  gentle  and  heartfelt. 

If  a  divorce  was  necessary,  the  relatives  of  her 
husband  would  probably  succeed  in  divesting 
her  of  most  of  the  property.  What  did  it  matter 
to  either  of  them?  Was  he  not  rich  and  was  she 
not  sure  of  him?  If  need  were,  he  could,  with 
one  stroke  of  the  pen,  repay  her  threefold  all  that 
she  might  lose.  But,  indeed,  these  reflections 
were  quite  futile.  For  when  two  people  are 
so  welded  together  in  their  souls,  their  earthly 
possessions  need  no  separation. 


80  THE    INDIAN   LILY, 

From  ten  until  half  past  eleven  he  sat  in  a 
corner  of  the  Cafe  Bauer  and  read  the  paper 
of  his  native  province  which,  usually,  he  never 
looked  at.  With  childlike  delight'  he  read  into 
the  local  notices  and  advertisements  things  perti- 
nent to  his  future  life. 

Bremsel,  the  delicatessen  man  in  a  neighbour- 
ing town  advertised  fresh  crabs.  And  Alice 
liked  them.  "Splendid,"  he  thought  *'we  won't 
have  to  bring  them  from  far."  And  suddenly 
he  himself  felt  an  appetite  for  the  shell-fish,  so 
thoroughly  had  he  lived  himself  into  his  vision 
of  domestic  felicity. 

At  twenty-five  minutes  of  twelve  he  paid  for 
his  chartreuse  and  set  out  on  foot.  He  had 
time  to  spare  and  he  did  not  want  to  cause  the 
unavoidable  disturbance  of  a  cab's  stopping  at 
her  door. 

The  house,  according  to  his  hope,  was  dark 
and  silent. 

With  beating  heart  he  drew  forth  the  key 
which  consisted  of  two  collapsible  parts.  One 
part  was  for  the  house  door,  the  other  for  a  door 
in  her  bed-room  that  led  to  a  separate  entrance. 
He  had  himself  chosen  the  apartment  with  this 
advantage  in  view. 

He  passed  the  lower  hall  unmolested  and 
reached  the  creaking  stairs  which  he  had  always 
hated.     And  as  he  mounted  he  registered  an 


THE    INDIAN   LILYj  81 

oath  to  pass  this  way  no  more.  He  would  not 
thus  jeopardise  the  fair  fame  of  his  betrothed. 

It  would  be  bad  enough  if  he  had  to  rap,  in 
case  the  night  latch  was  drawn.     . 

The  outer  door,  at  least,  offered  no  difficulty. 
He  touched  it  and  it  swung  loose  on  its  hinges. 

For  a  moment  the  mad  idea  came  into  his 
head  that — in  answer  to  her  letter — Alice  might 
have  foreseen  the  possibility  of  his  coming.  .  .  . 
He  was  just  about  to  test,  by  a  light  pressure, 
the  knob  of  the  inner  door  when,  coming  from 
the  bed-room,  a  muffled  sound  of  speech  reached 
his  ear. 

One  voice  was  Alice's:  the  other — ^his  breath 
stopped.  It  was  not  the  maid's.  He  knew  it 
well.    It  was  the  voice  of  Fritz  von  Ehrenberg. 

It  was  over  then-^f  or  him.  .  .  .  And  again 
and  again  he  murmured:    "It's  all  over." 

He  leaned  weakly  against  the  wall. 

Then  he  hstened. 

This  woman  who  could  not  yield  with  suffi- 
cient  fervour  to  the  abandon  of  passionate 
speech  and  action — this  was  Alice,  his  Alice, 
with  her  fine  sobriety,  her  philosophic  clearness 
of  mind. 

And  that  young  fool  whose  mouth  she  closed 
with  long  kisses  of  gratitude  for  his  folly — did 
he  realise  the  blessedness  which  had  fallen  to  the 
lot  of  his  crude  youth? 


82  THE    INDIAN    LILY 

It  was  over    ...     all  over. 

And  he  was  so  worn,  so  passionless,  so 
autumnal  of  soul,  that  he  could  smile  wearily  in 
the  midst  of  his  pain. 

Very  carefully  he  descended  the  creaking 
stairs,  locked  the  door  of  the  house  and  stood  on 
the  street — still  smiling. 

It  was  over     ...     all  over. 

Her  future  was  trodden  into  the  mire,  hers 
and  his  own. 

And  in  this  supreme  moment  he  grew  cruelly 
aware  of  his  crimes  against  her. 

All  her  love,  all  her  being  during  these  years 
had  been  but  one  secret  prayer:  "Hold  me,  do 
not  break  me,  do  not  desert  me!" 

He  had  been  deaf.  He  had  given  her  a  stone 
for  bread,  irony  for  love,  cold  doubt  for  warm, 
human  trust!  And  in  the  end  he  had  even  de- 
spised her  because  she  had  striven,  with  touch- 
ing faith,  to  form  herself  according  to  his  ex- 
ample. 

It  was  all  fatally  clear — now. 

Her  contradictions,  her  lack  of  feeling,  her 
haughty  scepticism — all  that  had  chilled  and 
estranged  him  had  been  but  a  dutiful  reflection 
of  his  own  being. 

Need  he  be  surprised  that  the  last  remnant  of 
her  lost  and  corrupted  youth  rose  in  impassioned 


THE    INDIAN   LILY  83 

rebellion  against  him  and,  thinking  to  save  itself, 
hurled  itself  to  destruction? 

He  gave  one  farewell  glance  to  the  dark,  silent 
house — the  grave  of  the  fairest  hopes  of  all  his 
life.  Then  he  set  out  upon  long,  dreary,  aimless 
wandering  through  the  endless,  nocturnal  streets. 

Like  shadows  the  shapes  of  night  ghded  by 
him. 

Shy  harlots — loud  roysterers — ^benzin  flames 
— ^more  harlots — and  here  and  there  one  lost  in 
thought  even  as  he. 

An   evil   odour,   as  of  singed  horses'  hoofs, 

floated  over  the  city The  dust  whirled 

under  the  street -cleaning  machines. 

The  world  grew  silent.  He  was  left  almost 
alone 

Then  the  life  of  the  awakening  day  began  to 
stir.  A  sleepy  dawn  crept  over  the  roofs.    .     .    ., 

It  was  the  next  morning. 

There  would  be  no  "next  mornings"  for  him. 
That  was  over. 

Let  others  send  Indian  lilies! 


THE  PURPOSE 


THE  PURPOSE 

I. 

It  was  a  blazing  afternoon,  late  in  July.  The 
Cheruskan  fraternity  entered  Ellerntal  in  cele- 
bration of  their  mid-summer  festivity.  They  had 
let  the  great  wagon  stand  at  the  outskirts  of  the 
yillage  and  now  marched  up  its  street  in  well- 
formed  procession,  proud  and  vain  as  a  company 
of  Schiitzen  before  whom  all  the  world  bows 
down  once  a  year. 

First  came  the  regimental  band  of  the  nearest 
garrison,  dressed  in  civilian's  clothes — then,  un- 
der the  vigilance  of  two  brightly  attired  fresh- 
men, the  blue,  white  and  golden  banner  of  the 
fraternity,  next  the  officers  accompanied  by 
other  freshmen,  and  finally  the  active  members 
in  whom  the  dignity,  decency  and  fighting 
strength  of  the  fraternity  were  embodied.  A 
gay  little  crowd  of  elderly  gentlemen,  ladies  and 
guests  followed  in  less  rigid  order.  Last  came, 
as  always  and  everywhere,  the  barefoot  children 
of  the  village. 

87 


88  THE  PURPOSE 

The  procession  came  to  a  halt  in  front  of  the 
Prussian  Eagle,  a  long-drawn  single  story  struc- 
ture of  frame.  The  newly  added  dance  hall  with 
its  three  great  windows  protruded  loftily  above 
the  house. 

The  banner  was  lowered,  the  horns  of  the 
band  gave  wild,  sharp  signals  to  which  no  one 
attended,  and  Pastor  Rhode,  a  sedate  man  of 
fifty  dressed  in  the  scarf  and  slashed  cap  of  the 
order,  stepped  from  the  inn  door  to  pronounce 
the  address  of  welcome.  At  this  moment  it 
happened  that  one  of  the  two  banner  bearers 
w^ho  had  stood  at  the  right  and  left  of  the  flag 
with  naked  foils,  rigid  as  statues,  slowly  tilted 
over  forward  and  buried  his  face  in  the  green 
sward. 

This  event  naturally  put  an  immediate  end  to 
the  ceremony.  Everybody,  men  and  women, 
thronged  around  the  fallen  youth  and  were 
quickly  pushed  back  by  the  medical  fraternity 
men  who  were  present  in  various  stages  of  pro- 
fessional development. 

The  medical  wisdom  of  this  many-headed 
council  culminated  in  the  cry:  "A  glass  of 
water!" 

Immediately  a  young  girl — ^hot-eyed  and 
loose-haired,  exquisite  in  the  roundedness  of  half 
maturity — rushed  out  of  the  door  and  handed  a 
glass  to  the  gentlemen  who  had  turned  the  faint- 


THE  PURPOSE  80 

ing  lad  on  his  back  and  were  loosening  scarf  and 
collar. 

He  lay  there,  in  the  traditional  garb  of  the 
fraternity,  like  a  young  cavalry  man  of  the  time 
of  the  Great  Elector — with  his  blue,  gold-braided 
doublet,  close-fitting  breeches  of  white  leather 
and  mighty  boots  whose  flapping  tops  swelled  out 
over  his  firm  thighs.  He  couldn't  be  above 
eighteen  or  nineteen,  long  and  broad  though  he 
was,  with  his  cheeks  of  milk  and  blood,  that 
showed  no  sign  of  down,  no  duelling  scar.  You 
would  have  thought  him  some  mother's  pet,  had 
there  not  been  a  sharp  line  of  care  that  ran 
mournfully  from  the  half-open  lips  to  the  chin. 

The  cold  water  did  its  duty.  Sighing,  the  lad 
opened  his  eyes — two  pretty  blue  boy's  eyes,  long 
lashed  and  yet  a  little  empty  of  expression  as 
though  life  had  delayed  giving  them  the  harder 
glow  of  maturity. 

These  eyes  fell  upon  the  young  girl  who  stood 
there,  with  hands  pressed  to  her  heaving  bosom, 
in  an  ecstatic  desire  to  help. 

"Where  can  we  carry  him?"  asked  one  of  the 
physicians. 

"Into  my  room,"  she  cried,  "I'll  show  you  the 
way." 

Eight  strong  hands  took  hold  and  two  minutes 
later  the  boy  lay  on  the  flowered  cover  of  her 
bed.    It  was  far  too  short  for  him,  but  it  stood. 


90  THE  PURPOSE 

soft  and  comfortable,  hidden  by  white  mull  cur- 
tains in  a  corner  of  her  simple  room. 

He  was  summoned  back  to  full  conscious- 
ness, tapped,  auscultated  and  examined.  Fi- 
nally he  confessed  with  a  good  deal  of  hesita- 
tion that  his  right  foot  hurt  him  a  bit — that  was 
all. 

"Are  the  boots  your  own,  freshie?"  asked  one 
of  the  physicians. 

He  blushed,  turned  his  gaze  to  the  wall  and 
shook  his  head. 

Everyone  smiled. 

"Well,  then,  off  with  the  wretched  thing." 

But  all  exertion  of  virile  strength  was  in  vain. 
The  boot  did  not  budge.  Only  a  low  moan  of 
suffering  came  from  the  patient. 

"There's  nothing  to  be  done,"  said  one,  "little 
miss,  let's  have  a  bread-knife." 

Anxious  and  with  half -folded  hands  she  had 
stood  behind  the  doctors.  Now  she  rushed  off 
and  brought  the  desired  implement. 

"But  you're  not  going  to  hurt  him?"  she  asked 
with  big,  beseeching  eyes. 

"No,  no,  we're  only  going  to  cut  his  leg  off," 
jested  one  of  the  by-standers  and  took  the  knife 
from  her  clinging  fingers. 

Two  incisions,  two  rents  along  the  shin — the 
leather  parted.  A  steady  surgeon's  hand  guided 
the  knife  carefully  over  the  instep.    At  last  the 


THE  PURPOSE  91 

flesh    appeared — bloody,   steel-blue   and   badly- 
swollen. 

"Freshie,  you  idiot,  you  might  have  killed 
yourself,"  said  the  surgeon  and  gave  the  patient 
a  paternal  nudge.  "And  now,  little  miss,  hurry, 
— sugar  of  lead  bandages  till  evening." 


II. 

Her  name  was  Antonie.  She  was  the  inn- 
keeper Wiesner's  only  daughter  and  managed 
the  household  and  kitchen  because  her  mother 
had  died  in  the  previous  year. 

His  name  was  Robert  Messerschmidt.  He 
was  a  physician's  son  and  a  student  of  medicine. 
He  hoped  to  fight  his  way  into  full  fraternity 
membership  by  the  beginning  of  the  next 
semester.  This  last  detail  was,  at  present,  the 
most  important  of  his  life  and  had  been  confided 
to  her  at  the  very  beginning  of  their  acquaint- 
anceship. 

Youth  is  in  a  hurry.  At  four  o'clock  their 
hands  were  intertwined.  At  five  o'clock  their  lips 
found  each  other.  From  six  on  the  bandages  were 
changed  more  rarely.  Instead  they  exchanged 
vows  of  eternal  fidelity.  At  eight  a  solemn 
betrothal  took  place.  And  when,  at  ten  o'clock, 
swaying  slightly  and  mellow  of  mood,  the  physi- 
cians reappeared  in  order  to  put  the  patient  to 
bed  properly,  'their  wedding-day  had  been 
definitely  set  for  the  fifth  anniversary  of  that 
day. 

92 


THE  PURPOSE  m 

Next  morning  the  procession  went  on  to  cele- 
brate in  some  other  picturesque  locality  the 
festival  of  the  breakfast  of  "the  morning  after." 

Toni  had  run  up  on  the  hill  which  ascended, 
behind  her  father's  house,  toward  the  high 
plateau  of  the  river-bank.  With  dry  but  burn- 
ing eyes  she  looked  after  the  wagons  which 
gradually  vanished  in  the  silver^^  sand  of  the 
road  and  one  of  which  carried  away  into  the 
distance  her  life's  whole  happiness. 

To  be  sure,  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  every- 
one whom  she  had  met.  This  habit  dated  from 
her  twelfth,  nay,  from  her  tenth  year.  But  this 
time  it  was  different,  oh,  so  different.  This  time 
it  was  like  an  axe-blow  from  which  one  doesn't 
arise.  Or  like  the  fell  disease — consumption — 
which  had  dragged  her  mother  to  the  grave. 

She  herself  was  more  like  her  father,  thick-set 
and  sturdy. 

She  had  also  inherited  his  calculating  and 
planning  nature.  With  tough  tenacity  he  could 
sacrifice  years  of  earning  and  sa\dng  and  plan- 
ning to  acquire  farms  and  meadows  and  or- 
chards. Thus  the  girl  could  meditate  and  plan 
her  fate  which,  until  vesterdav,  had  been  fluid  as 
water  but  which  to-day  lay  definitely  anchored 
in  the  soul  of  a  stranger  lad. 

Her  education  had  been  narrow.  She  knew 
the  little  that  an  old  governess  and  a  comfort- 


94  THE  PURPOSE 

able  pastor  could  teach.  But  she  read  whatever 
she  could  get  hold  of — from  the  tattered  "pony" 
to  Homer  which  a  boy  friend  had  loaned  her,  to 
the  most  horrible  pennj^-dreadfuls  which  were 
her  father's  delight  in  his  rare  hours  of  leisure. 

And  she  assimilated  what  she  read  and  adapted 
it  to  her  own  fate.  Thus  her  imagination  was 
familiar  with  happiness,  with  delusion,  with 
crime.     . 

She  knew  that  she  was  beautiful.  If  the 
humility  of  her  play-fellows  had  not  assured  her 
of  this  fact,  she  would  have  been  enlightened  by 
the  long  glances  and  jesting  admiration  of  her 
father's  guests. 

Her  father  was  strict.  He  interfered  with 
ferocity  if  a  traveller  jested  with  her  too  inti- 
mately. Nevertheless  he  liked  to  have  her  come 
into  the  inn  proper  and  slip,  smiling  and  curtsy- 
ing, past  the  wealthier  guests.  It  was  not  un- 
profitable. 

Upon  his  short,  fleshy  bow-legs,  with  his  sus- 
piciously calculating  blink,  with  his  avarice  and 
his  sharp  tongue,  he  stood  between  her  and  the 
world,  permitting  only  so  much  of  it  to  approach 
her  as  seemed,  at  a  given  moment,  harmless  and 
useful. 

His  attitude  was  fatal  to  any  free  communica- 
tion with  her  beloved.  He  opened  and  read 
every  letter  that  she  had  ever  received.    Had  she 


THE  PURPOSE  m 

ventured  to  call  for  one  at  the  post-office,  the  in- 
formation would  have  reached  him  that  very 
day. 

The  problem  was  how  to  deceive  him  without 
placing  herself  at  the  mercy  of  some  friend. 

She  sat  down  in  the  arbour  from  which,  past 
the  trees  of  the  orchard  and  the  neighbouring 
river,  one  had  a  view  of  the  Russian  forests,  and 
put  the  problem  to  her  seventeen-year  old  brain. 
And  while  the  summer  wind  played  with  the 
green  fruit  on  the  boughs  and  the  white  herons 
spread  their  gleaming  wings  over  the  river,  she 
thought  out  a  plan — the  first  of  many  by  which 
she  meant  to  rivet  her  beloved  for  life. 

On  the  same  afternoon  she  asked  her  father's 
permission  to  invite  the  daughter  of  the  county- 
physician  to  visit  her. 

"Didn't  know  you  were  such  great  friends,"  he 
said,  surprised. 

"Oh,  but  we  are,"  she  pretended  to  be  a  little 
hurt.  "We  were  received  into  the  Church  at  the 
same  time." 

With  lightning-like  rapidity  he  computed 
the  advantages  that  might  result  from  such  a 
visit.  The  county-seat  was  four  miles  distant  and 
if  the  societies  of  veterans  and  marksmen  in 
whose  committees  the  doctor  was  influential 
could  be  persuaded  to  come  hither  for  their 
outings.     .     .     . 


96  THE  PURPOSE 

The  girl  was  cordially  invited  and  arrived  a 
week  later.  She  was  surprised  and  touched  to 
find  so  faithful  a  friend  in  Toni  who,  when  they 
were  both  boarding  with  Pastor  Rhode,  had 
played  her  many  a  sly  trick. 

Two  months  later  the  girl,  in  her  turn,  in- 
vited Toni  to  the  city  whither  she  had  never  be- 
fore been  permitted  to  go  alone  and  so  the  latter 
managed  to  receive  her  lover's  first  letter. 

What  he  wrote  was  discouraging  enough.  His 
father  was  ill,  hence  the  excellent  practice  was 
gliding  into  other  hands  and  the  means  for  his 
own  studies  were  growing  narrow.  If  things 
went  on  so  he  might  have  to  give  up  his  university 
course  and  take  to  anything  to  keep  his  mother 
and  sister  from  want. 

This  prospect  did  not  please  Toni.  She  was 
so  proud  of  him.  She  could  not  bear  to  have 
him  descend  in  the  social  scale  for  the  sake  of 
bread  and  butter.  She  thought  and  thought 
how  she  could  help  him  with  money,  but  nothing 
occurred  to  her.  She  had  to  be  content  with  en- 
couraging him  and  assuring  him  that  her  love 
would  find  ways  and  means  for  helping  him  out 
of  his  difficulties. 

She  wrote  her  letters  at  night  and  jumped  out 
of  the  window  in  order  to  drop  them  secretly 
into  the  pillar  box.  It  was  months  before  she 
could  secure  an  answer.    His  father  was  better. 


THE  PURPOSE  m 

but  life  in  the  fraternity  was  very  expensive, 
and  it  was  a  very  grave  question  whether  he  had 
not  better  resign  the  scarf  which  he  had  just 
gained  and  study  on  as  a  mere  "barb." 

In  Toni's  imagination  the  picture  of  her  be- 
loved was  brilliantly  illuminated  by  the  glory  of 
the  tricoloured  fraternity  scarf,  his  desire  for  it 
had  become  so  ardently  her  own,  that  she  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  him — his  yearning  satis- 
fied— returning  to  the  gray  commonplace  garb 
of  Philistia.    And  so  she  wrote  him. 

Spring  came  and  Toni  matured  to  statelier 
maidenhood.  The  plump  girl,  half-child,  droll 
and  naive,  grew  to  be  a  thoughtful,  silent  young 
woman,  secretive  and  very  sure  of  her  aims.  She 
condescended  to  the  guests  and  took  no  notice 
of  the  desperate  admiration  which  surrounded 
her.  Her  glowing  eyes  looked  into  emptiness, 
her  infinitely  tempting  mouth  smiled  carelessly 
at  friends  and  strangers. 

In  May  Robert's  father  died. 

She  read  it  in  one  of  the  papers  that  were 
taken  at  the  inn,  and  immediately  it  became 
clear  to  her  that  her  whole  future  was  at  stake. 
For  if  he  was  crushed  now  by  the  load  of  family 
cares,  if  hope  were  taken  from  him,  no  thought 
of  her  or  her  love  would  be  left.  Only  if  she 
could  redeem  her  promises  and  help  him  practi- 
cally could  she  hope  to  keep  him. 


98  THE  PURPOSE 

In  the  farthest  corner  of  a  rarely  opened 
drawer  lay  her  mother's  jewels  which  were  some 
day  to  he  hers — hrooches  and  rings,  a  golden 
chain,  and  a  comh  set  with  rubies  which  had 
found  its  way — heaven  knows  how — into  the 
simple  inn. 

Without  taking  thought  she  stole  the  whole 
and  sent  it  as  merchandise — not  daring  to  risk 
the  evidence  of  registration — to  help  him  in  his 
studies.  The  few  hundred  marks  that  the 
jewellery  would  bring  woidd  surely  keep  him  un- 
til the  end  of  the  semester  .  .  .  but  what 
then?     . 

And  again  she  thought  and  planned  all 
through  the  long,  hot  nights. 

Pastor  Rhode's  eldest  son,  a  frail,  tall  junior 
who  followed  her,  full  of  timid  passion,  came 
home  from  college  for  the  spring  vacation.  In 
the  dusk  he  crept  around  the  inn  as  had  been  his 
wont  for  years. 

This  time  he  had  not  long  to  wait. 

How  did  things  go  at  college?  Badly.  Would 
he  enter  the  senior  class  at  Michaelmas?  Hardly. 
Then  she  would  have  to  be  ashamed  of  him,  and 
that  would  be  a  pity :  she  liked  him  too  well. 

The  slim  lad  writhed  under  this  exquisite  tor- 
ture. It  wasn't  his  fault.  He  had  pains  in  his 
chest,  and  growing  pains.    And  all  that. 

She  unfolded  her  plan. 


THE  PURPOSE  9^ 

"You  ought  to  have  a  tutor  during  the  long 
vacation,  Emil,  to  help  you  work." 

"Papa  can  do  that." 

"Oh,  Papa  is  busy.  You  ought  to  have  a 
tutor  all  to  yourself,  a  student  or  something  like 
that.  If  you're  really  fond  of  me  .ask  your 
Papa  to  engage  one.  Perhaps  he'll  get  a  young 
man  from  his  own  f  rat  emit  v  with  whom  he  can 
chat  in  the  evening.  You  will  ask,  won't  you? 
I  don't  like  people  who  are  conditioned  in  their 
studies." 

That  same  night  a  letter  was  sent  to  her  be- 
loved. 

"Watch  the  frat.  bulletin!  Our  pastor  is  go- 
ing to  look  for  a  tutor  for  his  boy.  See  to  it  that 
you  get  the  position.    I'm  longing  to  see  you." 


III. 

Once  more  it  was  late  July — exactly  a  year 
after  those  memorable  events — and  he  sat  in  the 
stage-coach  and  took  off  his  crape-hung  cap  to 
her.  His  face  was  torn  by  fresh  scars  and 
diagonally  across  his  breast  the  blue  white  golden 
scarf  was  to  be  seen. 

She  grasped  the  posts  of  the  fence  with  both 
hands  and  felt  that  she  would  die  if  she  could  not 
have  him. 

Upon  that  evening  she  left  the  house  no  more, 
although  for  two  hours  he  walked  the  dusty  vil- 
lage street,  with  Emil,  but  also  alone.  But  on 
the  next  evening  she  stood  behind  the  fence. 
Their  hands  found  each  other  across  the  obstacle. 

"Do  you  sleep  on  the  ground-floor?"  she  asked 
whispering. 

"Yes." 

"Does  the  dog  still  bark  when  he  sees  you." 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  afraid  so." 

"When  you've  made  friends  with  him  so  that 
he  won't  bark  when  you  get  out  of  the  window, 
then  come  to  the  arbour  behind  our  orchard.  I'll 
:wait  for  you  every  night  at  twelve.    But  don't 

100 


THE  PURPOSE  101 

mind  that.  Don't  come  till  you're  sure  of  the 
dog." 

For  three  long  nights  she  sat  on  the  wooden 
bench  of  the  arbour  until  the  coming  of  dawn 
and  stared  into  the  bluish  dusk  that  hid  the  vil- 
lage as  in  a  cloak.  From  time  to  time  the  dogs 
bayed.  She  could  distinguish  the  bay  of  the  pas- 
tor's collie.  She  knew  his  hoarse  voice.  Per- 
haps he  was  barring  her  beloved's  way.     .     .     .* 

At  last,  during  the  fourth  night,  when  his  com- 
ing was  scarcely  to  be  hoped  for,  uncertain  steps 
dragged  up  the  hill. 

She  did  not  run  to  meet  him.  She  crouched 
in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  arbour  and  tasted, 
intensely  blissful,  the  moments  during  which  he 
felt  his  way  through  the  foliage. 

Then  she  clung  to  his  neck,  to  his  lips,  de- 
manding and  according  all — rapt  to  the  very 
peaks  of  life.     .     .     . 

They  were  together  nightly.  Few  words 
passed  between  them.  She  scarcely  knew  how 
he  looked.  For  not  even  a  beam  of  the  moon 
could  penetrate  the  broad-leaved  foliage,  and  at 
the  peep  of  dawn  they  separated.  She  might 
have  lain  in  the  arms  of  a  stranger  and  not  known 
the  difference. 

And  not  only  during  their  nightly  meetings, 
but  even  by  day  they  slipt  through  life-hke 
shadows. 


102  THE  PURPOSE 

One  day  the  pastor  came  to  the  inn  for  a  glass 
of  beer  and  chatted  with  other  gentlemen.  She 
heard  him. 

"I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  that 
young  fellow,"  he  said.  "He  does  his  duty  and 
my  boy  is  making  progress.  But  he's  like  a 
stranger  from  another  world.  He  sits  at  the 
table  and  scarcelj^  sees  us.  He  talks  and  you 
have  the  feeling  that  he  doesn't  know  what  he's 
talking  about.  Either  he's  ansemic  or  he  writes 
poetry." 

She  herself  saw  the  world  through  a  blue  veil, 
heard  the  voices  of  life  across  an  immeasurable 
distance  and  felt  hot,  alien  shivers  run  through 
her  enervated  limbs. 

The  early  Autumn  approached  and  with  it  the 
day  of  his  departure.  At  last  she  thought 
of  discussing  the  future  with  him  which,  un- 
til then,  like  all  else  on  earth,  had  sunk  out  of 
sight. 

His  mother,  he  told  her,  meant  to  move  to 
Koenigsberg  and  earn  her  living  by  keeping 
boarders.  Thus  there  was  at  least  a  possibility 
of  his  continuing  his  studies.  But  he  didn't  be- 
lieve that  he  would  be  able  to  finish.  His  present 
means  would  soon  be  exhausted  and  he  had  no 
idea  where  others  would  come  from. 

All  that  he  told  her  in  the  annoyed  and  almost 
tortured  tones  of  one  long  weary  of  hope  who 


THE  PURPOSE  103 

only  staggers  on  in  fear  of  more  vital  degrada- 
tion. 

With  flaming  words  she  urged  him  to  be  of 
good  courage.  She  insisted  upon  such  resources 
as — ^however  frugal — were,  after  all,  at  hand,  and 
calculated  every  penny.  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders  at  his  gratitude  for  that  first 
act  of  helpfulness.  If  only  there  were  some- 
thing else  to  be  taken.  But  whence  and  how? 
Her  suspicious  father  would  have  observed  any 
shortage  in  his  till  at  once  and  would  have  had 
the  thief  discovered. 

The  great  thing  was  to  gain  time.  Upon  her 
advice  he  was  to  leave  Koenigsberg  with  its  ex- 
pensive fraternity  life  and  pass  the  winter  in 
Berlin.  The  rest  had  to  be  left  to  luck  and  cun- 
ning. 

In  a  chill,  foggy  September  night  they  said 
farewell.  Shivering  they  held  each  other  close. 
Their  hearts  were  full  of  the  confused  hopes 
which  they  themselves  had  kindled,  not  because 
there  was  any  ground  for  hope,  but  because  with- 
out it  one  cannot  live. 

And  a  few  weeks  later  everything  came  to  an 
end. 

For  Toni  knew  of  a  surety  that  she  would  be 
a  mother.    ,     .     ., 


IV. 

Into  the  river! 

For  that  her  father  would  put  her  in  the  street 
was  clear.  It  was  equally  clear  what  would  be- 
come of  her  in  that  case. 

But  no,  not  into  the  river!  Why  was  her 
young  head  so  practised  in  skill  and  cunning,  if 
it  was  to  bow  helplessly  under  the  first  severe  on- 
slaught of  fate  ?  What  was  the  purpose  of  those 
beautiful  long  nights  but  to  brood  upon  plans 
and  send  far  thoughts  out  toward  shining  aims  ? 

No,  she  would  not  run  into  the  river.  That 
dear  wedding-day  in  five,  nay,  in  four  years,  was 
lost  anyhow.  But  the  long  time  could  be  utilised 
so  cleverly  that  her  beloved  could  be  dragged 
across  the  abyss  of  his  fate. 

First,  then,  she  must  have  a  father  for  her 
child.  He  must  not  be  clever.  He  must  not  be 
strong  of  will.  Nor  young,  for  youth  makes  de- 
mands. .  .  .  Nor  well  off,  for  he  who  is 
certain  of  himself  desires  freedom  of  choice. 

Her  choice  fell. upon  a  former  inn-keeper,  a 
down-hearted  man  of  about  fifty,  moist  of  eye, 
faded,  with  greasy  black  hair.    .    .    .     He  had 

104 


THE  PURPOSE  105 

failed  in  business  some  years  before  and  now  sat 
around  in  the  inn,  looking  for  a  job.     . 

To  this  her  father  did  not  object.  For  that 
man's  condition  was  an  excellent  foil  to  his 
own  success  and  prosperity  and  thus  he  was 
permitted,  at  times,  to  stay  a  week  in  the 
house  where,  otherwise,  charity  was  scarcely  at 
home. 

Her  plan  worked  well.  On  the  first  day  she 
lured  him  silently  on.  On  the  second  he  re- 
sponded. On  the  third  she  turned  sharply  and 
rebuked  him.  On  the  fourth  she  forgave  him. 
On  the  fifth  she  met  him  in  secret.  On  the  sixth 
he  went  on  a  journey,  conscience  smitten  for 
having  seduced  her.     ... 

That  ver\^  night — for  there  was  no  time  to  be 
lost — she  confessed  with  trembling  and  blushing 
to  her  father  that  she  was  overcome  by  an  uncon- 
querable passion  for  Herr  Weigand.  As  was  to 
be  expected  she  was  driven  from  the  door  with 
shame  and  fury. 

During  the  following  weeks  she  went  about 
bathed  in  tears.  Her  father  avoided  her.  Then, 
when  the  right  moment  seemed  to  have  come,  she 
made  a  second  and  far  more  difficult  confession. 
This  time  her  tremours  and  her  blushes  were 
real,  her  tears  were  genuine  for  her  father  used 
a  horse-whip.  .  .  .  But  when,  that  night, 
Toni  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  bed  and  bathed  the 


106  THE  PURPOSE 

bloody  welts  on  her  body,  she  knew  that  her  plan 
would  succeed. 

And,  to  be  sure,  two  days  later  Herr  Weigand 
returned — a  little  more  faded,  a  little  more  hesi- 
tant, but  altogether,  by  no  means  unhappy.  He 
was  invited  into  her  father's  office  for  a  long 
discussion.  The  result  was  that  the  two  lovers 
fell  into  each  others'  arms  while  her  father, 
trembling  with  impotent  rage,  hurled  at  them  the 
fragments  of  a  crushed  cigar. 

The  banns  were  proclaimed  immediately  after 
the  bethrothal,  and  a  month  later  Herr  Wei- 
gand, in  his  capacity  of  son-in-law,  could  take 
possession  of  the  same  garret  which  he  had  in- 
habited as  an  impecunious  guest.  This  arrange- 
ment, however,  was  not  a  permanent  one.  An 
inn  was  to  be  rented  for  the  young  couple — 
with  her  father's  money. 

Toni,  full  of  zeal  and  energy,  took  part  in 
every  new  undertaking,  travelled  hither  and 
thither,  considered  prospects  ^nd  dangers,  but 
always  withdrew  again  at  the  last  moment  in 
order  to  await  a  fairer  opportunity. 

But  she  was  utterly  set  upon  the  immediate 
furnishing  of  the  new  home.  She  went  to 
Koenigsberg  and  had  long  sessions  with  furni- 
ture dealers  and  tradesmen  of  all  kinds.  On  ac- 
count of  her  delicate  condition  she  insisted  that 
she  could  only  travel  on  the  upholstered  seats  of 


THE  PURPOSE  107 

the  second  class.  She  charged  her  father  ac- 
tordingly  and  in  reality  travelled  fourth  class 
and  sat  for  hours  between  market-women  and 
Polish  Jews  in  order  to  save  a  few  marks.  In 
the  accounts  she  rendered  heavv  meals  were 
itemized,  strengthening  wines,  stimulating  cor- 
dials. As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  lived  on  dried 
slices  of  bread  which,  before  leaving  home,  she 
hid  in  her  trunk. 

She  did  not  disdain  the  saving  of  a  tram  car 
fare,  although  the  rebates  which  she  got  on  the 
furniture  ran  into  the  hundreds. 

All  that  she  sent  jubilantly  to  her  lover  in 
Berlin,  assured  that  he  was  provided  for  some 
months. 

Thus  the  great  misfortune  had  finally  resulted 
in  a  blessing.  For,  without  these  unhoped  for  re- 
sources, he  must  have  long  fallen  by  the  way- 
side. 

Months  passed.  Her  furnishings  stood  in  a 
storage  warehouse,  but  the  house  in  which  they; 
were  to  live  was  not  yet  found. 

When  she  felt  that  her  hour  had  come — ^her 
father  and  husband  thought  it  far  off — she  re- 
doubled the  energy  of  her  travels,  seeking, 
preferably,  rough  and  ribbed  roads  which  other 
women  in  her  condition  were  wont  to  shun. 

And  thus,  one  day,  in  a  springless  vehicle,  two 
miles  distant  from  the  county-seat,  the  p^ns  of 


108  THE  PURPOSE 

labour  came  upon  her.  She  steeled  erery  nerve 
and  had  herself  carried  to  the  house  of  the 
county-physician  whose  daughter  was  now 
tenderly  attached  to  her. 

There  she  gave  birth  to  a  girl  child  which  an- 
nounced its  equivocal  arrival  in  this  world  lustily. 

The  old  doctor,  into  whose  house  this  confusion 
had  suddenly  come,  stood  by  her  bed-side,  smiling 
good-naturedly.  She  grasped  him  with  both 
hands,  terror  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  voice. 

"  Dear,  dear  doctor!  The  baby  was  born  too 
soon,  wasn't  it?" 

The  doctor  drew  back  and  regarded  her  long 
and  earnestly.  Then  his  smile  returned  and  his 
kind  hand  touched  her  hair. 

"Yes,  it  is  as  you  say.  The  baby's  nails  are 
not  fully  developed  and  its  weight  is  slightly 
below  normal.  It's  all  on  account  of  your  care- 
less rushing  about.     Surely  the  child  came  too 


soon." 


And  he  gave  her  the  proper  certification  of  the 
fact  which  protected  her  from  those  few  people 
who  might  consider  themselves  partakers  of  her 
secret.  For  the  opinion  of  people  in  general  she 
cared  little.  So  strong  had  she  grown  through 
guilt  and  silence. 

And  she  was  a  child  of  nineteen!     .     .     ., 


y. 

When  Toni  had  arisen  from  her  bed  of  pain 
she  found  the  place  which  she  and  her  husband 
had  been  seeking  for  months  with  surprising 
rapidity.  The  "Hotel  Germania,"  the  most 
reputable  hotel  in  the  county-seat  itself  was  for 
rent.  Its  owner  had  recently  died.  It  was  pala- 
tial compared  to  her  father's  inn.  There  were 
fifteen  rooms  for  guests,  a  tap-room,  a  wine- 
room,  a  grocery-shop  and  a  livery-stable. 

Weigand,  intimidated  by  misfortune,  had 
never  even  hoped  to  aspire  to  such  heights  of 
splendour.  Even  now  he  could  only  grasp  the 
measure  of  his  happiness  by  calculating  enor- 
mous profits.  And  he  did  this  with  peculiar  de- 
light. For,  since  the  business  was  to  be  run  in 
the  name  of  Toni's  father,  his  own  creditors 
could  not  touch  him. 

When  they  had  moved  in  and  the  business  be- 
gan to  be  straightened  out,  Weigand  proved  him- 
self in  flat  contradiction  of  his  slack  and  careless 
character,  a  tough  and  circumspect  man  of  busi- 
ness. He  knew  the  whereabouts  of  every  penny 
and  was  not  inclined  to  permit  his  wife  to  make 
random  inroads  upon  his  takings. 

109 


,,_;.;«: 


110  THE  PURPOSE 

Toni,  who  had  expected  to  be  undisputed  mis- 
tress of  the  safe  saw  herself  cheated  of  her 
dearest  hopes,  for  the  time  approached  when  the 
savings  made  on  the  purchase  of  her  furniture 
must  necessarily  be  exhausted. 

And  again  she  planned  and  wrestled  through 
the  long,  warm  nights  while  her  husband,  whose 
inevitable  proximity  she  bore  calmly,  snored  with 
the  heaviness  of  many  professional  "treats." 

One  day  she  said  to  him:  "A  few  pennies 
must  be  put  by  for  Amanda."  That  was  the 
name  of  the  little  girl  who  flourished  merrily  in 
her  cradle.  "You  must  assign  some  little  profits 
to  me." 

"What  can  I  do  ?"  he  asked.  "For  the  present 
everything  belongs  to  the  old  man." 

"I  know  what  I'd  like,"  she  went  on,  smiling 
dreamily,  "I'd  like  to  have  all  the  profits  on  the 
sale  of  champagne." 

He  laughed  heartily.  There  wasn't  much  call 
for  champagne  in  the  little  county-seat.  At 
most  a  few  bottles  were  sold  on  the  emperor's 
birthday  or  when,  once  in  a  long  while,  a  flush 
commercial  traveller  wanted  to  regale  a  recalci- 
trant customer. 

And  so  Weigand  fell  in  with  what  he  thought 
a  mere  mood  and  assented. 

Toni  at  once  made  a  trip  to  Koenigsberg  and 
bought   all   kinds   of   phantastic   decorations — 


THE  PURPOSE  111 

Chinese  lanterns,  gilt  fans,  artificial  flowers,  gay- 
vases  and  manicoloured  lamp-shades.  With  all 
these  things  she  adorned  the  little  room  that  lay 
behind  the  room  in  which  the  most  distinguished 
townspeople  were  wont  to  drink  their  beer.  And 
so  the  place  with  veiled  light  and  crimson  glow 
looked  more  like  a  mysterious  oriental  shrine 
than  the  sitting-room  of  an  honest  Prussian  inn- 
keeper's wife. 

She  sat  evening  after  evening  in  this  phan- 
tastic  room.  She  brought  her  knitting  and 
awaited  the  things  that  were  to  come. 

The  gentlemen  who  drank  in  the  adjoining 
room,  the  judges,  physicians,  planters — ^all  the 
bigwigs  of  a  small  town,  in  short — soon  noticed 
the  magical  light  that  glimmered  through  the 
half-open  door  whenever  Weigand  was  obliged 
to  pass  from  the  public  rooms  into  his  private 
dwelling.  And  the  men  grew  to  be  curious,  the 
more  so  as  the  inn-keeper's  young  wife,  of  whose 
charms  many  rumours  were  afloat,  had  never  yet 
been  seen  by  any. 

One  evening,  when  the  company  was  in  an 
especially  hilarious  mood,  the  men  demanded 
stormily  to  see  the  mysterious  room. 

Weigand  hesitated.  He  would  have  to  ask 
his  wife's  permission.  He  returned  with  the 
friendly  m^sage  that  the  gentlemen  were  wel- 
come.   Hesitant,  almost  timid,  they  entered  as  if 


112  THE  PURPOSE 

crossing  the  threshold  of  some  house  of  mys- 
tery. 

There  stood — transfigured  by  the  glow  of 
coloured  lamps — the  shapely  young  woman  with 
the  alluring  glow  in  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  that 
were  in  the  form  of  a  heart.  She  gave  each  a 
secretly  quivering  hand  and  spoke  a  few  soft 
words  that  seemed  to  distinguish  him  from  the 
others.  Then,  still  timid  and  modest,  she  asked 
them  to  be  seated  and  begged  for  permission  to 
serve  a  glass  of  champagne  in  honour  of  the  oc- 
casion. 

It  is  not  recorded  who  ordered  the  second 
bottle.  It  may  have  been  the  very  fat  Herr  von 
Loffka,  or  the  permanently  hilarious  judge.  At 
all  events  the  short  visit  of  the  gentlemen  came 
to  an  end  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  with 
wild  intoxication  and  a  sale  of  eighteen  bottles  of 
champagne,  of  which  half  bore  French  labels. 

Toni  resisted  all  requests  for  a  second  invita- 
tion to  her  sanctum.  She  first  insisted  on  the 
solemn  assurance  that  the  gentlemen  would  re- 
spect her  presence  and  bring  neither  herself  nor 
her  house  into  ill-repute.  At  last  came  the  im- 
perial county-counsellor  himself — a  wealthy 
bachelor  of  fifty  with  the  manners  of  an  injured 
lady  killer.  He  came  to  beg  for  himself  and  the 
others  and  she  dared  not  refuse  any  longer. 

The  champagne  festivals  continued.     With 


THE  PURPOSE  113 

this  difference:  that  Toni,  whenever  the  atmos- 
phere reached  a  certain  point  of  heated  intoxica- 
tion, modestly  withdrew  to  her  bedroom.  Thus 
she  succeeded  not  only  in  holding  herself  spot- 
less but  in  being  praised  for  her  retiring  nature. 

But  she  kindled  a  fire  in  the  heads  of  these  dis- 
satisfied University  men  who  deemed  themselves 
banished  into  a  land  of  starvation,  and  in  the 
senses  of  the  planters'  sons.  And  this  fire  burned 
on  and  created  about  her  an  atmosphere  of 
madly  fevered  desire.     ... 

Finally  it  became  the  highest  mark  of  distinc- 
tion in  the  little  town,  the  sign  of  real  connois- 
seurship  in  life,  to  have  drunk  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne with  "Germania,"  as  they  called  her,  al- 
though she  bore  greater  resemblance  to  some 
swarthier  lady  of  Rome.  Whoever  was  not  ad- 
mitted to  her  circle  cursed  his  lowliness  and  his 
futile  life. 

Of  course,  in  spite  of  all  precautions,  it  could 
not  but  be  that  her  reputation  suffered.  The 
daughter  of  the  county-physician  began  to  avoid 
her,  the  wives  of  social  equals  followed  suit.  But 
no  one  dared  accuse  her  of  improper  relations 
with  any  of  her  adorers.  It  was  even  known  that 
the  county-counsellor,  desperate  over  her  stern 
refusals,  was  urging  her  to  get  a  divorce  from 
her  husband  and  marry  him.  No  one  suspected, 
of  course,  that  she  had  herself  spread  this  ru- 


114  THE  PURPOSE 

mour  in  order  to  render  pointless  the  possible 
leaking  out  of  improprieties.     .     .     . 

Nor  did  any  one  dream  that  a  bank  in  Koenigs- 
berg  transmitted,  in  her  name,  monthly  cheques 
to  Berlin  that  sufficed  amply  to  help  an  ambitious 
medical  student  to  continue  his  work. 

The  news  which  she  received  from  her  beloved 
was  scanty. 

In  order  to  remain  in  communication  with  him 
she  had  thought  out  a  subtle  method. 

The  house  of  every  tradesman  or  business  man 
in  the  provinces  is  flooded  with  printed  adver- 
tisements from  Berlin  which  pour  out  over  the 
small  towns  and  the  open  country.  Of  this 
printed  matter,  which  is  usually  thrown  aside 
unnoticed,  Toni  gathered  the  most  voluminous 
examples,  carefully  preserved  the  envelopes,  and 
sent  them  to  Robert.  Her  husband  did  not 
notice  of  course  that  the  same  advertising  matter 
came  a  second  time  nor  that  faint,  scarce  legible 
pencil  marks  picked  out  words  here  and  there 
which,  when  read  consecutively,  made  complete 
sense  and  differed  very  radically  from  the  mes- 
sage which  the  printed  slips  were  meant  to  con- 
vey.    ... 

Years  passed.  A  few  ship-wrecked  lives 
marked  Toni's  path,  a  few  female  slanders 
against  her  were  avenged  by  the  courts.  Other- 
wise nothing  of  import  took  place. 


THE  PURPOSE  115 

And  in  her  heart  burned  with  never-lessening 
glow  the  one  great  emotion  which  always  sup- 
plied fuel  to  her  will,  which  lent  every  action  a 
pregnant  significance  and  furnished  absolution 
for  every  crime. 

In  the  meantime  Amanda  grew  to  be  a  blue- 
eyed,  charming  child — gentle  and  caressing  and 
the  image  of  the  man  of  whose  love  she  was  the 
impassioned  gift. 

But  Fate,  which  seems  to  play  its  gigantic 
pranks  upon  men  in  the  act  of  punishing  them, 
brought  it  to  pass  that  the  child  seemed  also  to 
bear  some  slight  resemblance  to  the  stranger 
who,  bowed  and  servile,  stupidly  industrious, 
sucking  cigars,  was  to  be  seen  at  her  mother's" 
side. 

Never  was  father  more  utterly  devoted  to  the 
fruit  of  his  loins  than  this  gulled  fellow  to  the 
strange  child  to  whom  the  mother  did  not  even — 
by  kindly  inactivity — give  him  a  borrowed  right. 
The  more  carefully  she  sought  to  separate  the 
child  from  him,  the  more  adoringly  and  tena- 
ciously did  he  cling  to  it. 

With  terror  and  rage  Toni  was  obliged  to  ad- 
mit to  herself  that  no  sum  would  ever  suffice  to 
make  Weigand  agree  to  a  divorce  that  separated 
him  definitely  from  the  child.  And  dreams  and 
visions,  transplanted  into  her  brain  from  evil 
books,  filled  Toni's  nights  with  the  glitter  of 


116  THE   rURPOSE 

dag^^ers  and  the  stain  of  flowing  blood.  And 
fate  seemed  to  urge  on  the  day  when  these 
dreams  must  take  on  flesh.     . 

One  day  she  found  in  the  waste-paper  basket 
which  she  searched  carefully  after  every  mail- 
delivery,  an  advertisement  which  commended  to 
the  buying  public  a  new  make  of  type-writer. 

"Many  public  institutions,"  thus  the  advertise- 
ment ran,  "use  our  well  tried  machines  in  their 
offices,  because  these  machines  will  bear  the  most 
rigid  examination.  Their  reputation  has  crossed 
the  ocean.  The  Chilean  ministry  has  just 
ordered  a  dozen  of  our  'Excelsiors'  by  cable. 
Thus  successfully  does  our  invention  spread  over 
the  world.    And  yet  its  victorious  progress  is  by 

no  means  completed.    Even  in  Japan "  and 

so  on. 

If  one  looked  at  this  stuff  very  carefully,  one 
could  observe  that  certain  words  were  lightly 
marked  in  pencil.  And  if  one  read  these 
words  consecutively,  the  following  sentence  re- 
sulted :  "Public — examination — just — success- 
fully— completed." 

From  this  day  on  the  room  with  the  veiled 
lamps  remained  closed  to  her  eager  friends. 
From  this  day -on  the  generous  county-counsellor 
saw  that  his  hopes  were  dead.    . 


VI. 

How  was  the  man  to  be  disposed  of? 

An  open  demand  for  divorce  would  have  been 
stupid,  for  it  would  have  thrown  a  vei^^  vivid  sus- 
picion upon  any  later  and  more  drastic  attempt. 

Weigand's  walk  and  conversation  were  blame- 
less. Her  one  hope  consisted  in  catching  him  in 
some  chance  infidelity.  The  desire  for  change, 
she  reasoned,  the  allurement  of  forbidden  fruit, 
must  inflame  even  this  wooden  creature. 

She  had  never,  hitherto,  paid  the  slightest  at- 
tention to  the  problem  of  waitresses.  Now  she 
travelled  to  Koenigsberg  and  hired  the  hand- 
somest women  to  be  found  in  the  employment 
bureaus.  They  came,  one  after  another,  a  feline 
Polish  girl,  a  smihng,  radiantly  blond  child  of 
Sweden — a  Venus,  a  Germania — this  time  a 
genuine  one.  Next  came  a  pretended  Circassian 
princess.  And  they  all  wandered  off  again,  and 
Weigand  had  no  glance  for  them  but  that  of 
the  master. 

Antonie  was  discouraged  and  dropped  her 
plan. 

,What  now? 

117 


118  THE  PURPOSE 

She  had  recoiled  from  no  baseness.  She  had 
sacrificed  to  her  love  honour,  self-respect,  truth, 
righteousness  and  pride.  But  she  had  avoided 
hitherto  the  possibility  of  a  conflict  with  the  law. 
Occasional  small  thefts  in  the  house  did  not 
count. 

But  the  day  had  come  when  crime  itself,  crime 
that  threatened  remorse  and  the  sword  of  judg- 
ment, entered  her  life.  For  otherwise  she  could 
not  get  rid  of  her  husband. 

The  regions  that  lie  about  the  eastern  bound- 
ary of  the  empire  are  haunted  by  Jewish  peddlers 
iwho  carry  in  their  sacks  Russian  drops,  candied 
fruits,  gay  ribands,  toys  made  of  bark,  and 
other  pleasant  things  which  make  them  welcome 
to  young  people.  But  they  also  supply  sterner 
needs.  In  the  bottom  of  their  sacks  are  hidden 
love  philtres  and  strange  electuaries.  And  if 
you  press  them  very  determinedly,  you  will  find 
some  among  them  who  have  the  little  white 
powders  that  can  be  poured  into  beer  . 
or  the  small,  round  discs  which  the  common  folk 
call  "crow's  eyes"  and  which  the  greedy  apothe- 
caries will  not  sell  you  merely  for  the  reason  that 
they  prepare  the  costlier  strychnine  from  them. 

You  will  often  see  these  beneficent  men  in  the 
twilight  in  secret  colloquy  with  female  figures  by 
garden-gates  and  the  edges  of  woods.  The  fe- 
male figures  slip  away  if  you  happen  to  appear 


THE  PURPOSE  119 

on  the  road.  .  .  .  Often,  too,  these  men  are 
asked  into  the  house  and  intimate  council  is  held 
with  them — especially  when  husband  and  serv- 
ants are  busy  in  the  fields.     . 

One  evening  in  the  beginning  of  May,  Toni 
brought  home  with  her  from  a  harmless  walk  a 
little  box  of  arsenic  and  a  couple  of  small,  hard 
discs  that  rattled  merrily  in  one's  pocket.  .  .  .. 
Cold  sweat  ran  down  her  throat  and  her  legs 
trembled  so  that  she  had  to  sit  down  on  a  case 
of  soap  before  entering  the  house. 

Her  husband  asked  her  what  was  wrong. 

"Ah,  it's  the  spring,"  she  answered  and 
laughed. 

Soon  her  adorers  noticed,  and  not  these  only, 
that  her  loveliness  increased  from  day  to  day. 
Her  eyes  which,  under  their  depressed  brows, 
had  assumed  a  sharp  and  peering  gaze,  once 
more  glowed  with  their  primal  fire,  and  a  warm 
rosiness  suffused  her  cheeks  that  spread  mar- 
velously  to  her  forehead  and  throat. 

Her  appearance  made  so  striking  an  impres- 
sion that  many  a  one  who  had  not  seen  her  for  a 
space  stared  at  her  and  asked,  full  of  admiration: 
"What  have  you  done  to  yourself?" 

"It  is  the  spring,"  she  answered  and  laughed. 

'As  a  matter  of  fact  she  had  taken  to  eating 
arsenic. 

She  had  been  told  that  any  one  who  becomes 


120  THE  PURPOSE  f 

accustomed  to  the  use  of  this  poison  can  increase 
the  doses  to  such  an  extent  that  he  can  take  with- 
out harm  a  quantity  that  will  necessarily  kill 
another.  And  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
partake  of  the  soup  which  she  meant,  some  day, 
to  prepare  for  her  husband.  That  much  she 
held  to  be  due  a  faultless  claim  of  innocence. 

But  she  was  unfortunate  enough  to  make  a 
grievous  mistake  one  day,  and  lay  writhing  on 
the  floor  in  uncontrollable  agony. 

The  old  physician  at  once  recognized  the  symp- 
toms of  arsenic  poisoning,  prescribed  the  neces- 
sary antidotes  and  carefully  dragged  her  back 
into  life.  The  quantity  she  had  taken,  he  de- 
clared, shaking  his  head,  was  enough  to  slay  a 
strong  man.  He  transmitted  the  information 
of  the  incident  as  demanded  by  law. 

Detectives  and  court-messengers  visited  the 
house.  The  entire  building  was  searched,  docu- 
ments had  to  be  signed  and  all  reports  were  care- 
fully followed  up. 

The  dear  romantic  public  refused  to  be  robbed 
of  its  opinion  that  one  of  Toni's  rejected  ad- 
mirers had  thus  sought  to  avenge  himself.  The 
suspicion  of  the  authorities,  however,  fastened 
itself  upon  a  waitress,  a  plump,  red-haired  wan- 
ton who  had  taken  the  place  of  the  imported 
beauties  and  whose  insolent  ugliness  the  men  of 
the  town,  relieved  of  nobler  delights,  enjoyed 


THE  PURPOSE  121 

thoroughly.  The  insight  of  the  investigating 
judge  had  found  in  the  girl's  serving  in  the 
house  and  her  apparent  intimacy  with  its  master 
a  scent  which  he  would  by  no  means  abandon. 
Only,  because  a  few  confirmatory  details  were 
still  to  seek,  the  suspicion  was  hidden  not  only 
from  the  public  but  even  from  its  object. 

Antonie,  however,  ailed  continually.  She  grew 
thin,  her  digestion  was  delicate.  If  the  blow  was 
to  be  struck — and  many  circumstances  urged  it 
— she  would  no  longer  be  able  to  share  the  poi- 
son with  her  victim.  But  it  seemed  fairly  certain 
that  suspicion  would  very  definitely  fall  not  upon 
her  but  upon  the  other  woman.  The  lat- 
ter would  have  to  be  sacrificed,  so  much  was 
clear. 

But  that  was  the  difficulty.  The  wounded  con- 
science might  recover,  the  crime  might  be  con- 
quered into  forgetfulness,  if  only  that  is  slain 
which  burdens  the  earth,  which  should  never  have 
been.  But  Toni  felt  that  her  soul  could  not 
drag  itself  to  any  bourne  of  peace  if,  for  her  own 
advantage,  she  cast  one  who  was  innocent  to  last- 
ing and  irremediable  destruction. 

The  simplest  thing  would  have  been  to  dismiss 
the  woman.  In  that  case,  however,  it  was  pos- 
sible that  the  courts  would  direct  their  investi- 
gations to  her  admirers.  One  of  them  had  spoken 
hasty  and  careless  words.    He  might  not  be  able 


122  THE  PURPOSE 

to  clear  himself,  were  the  accusation  directed 
against  him. 

There  remained  but  one  hope:  to  ascribe  the 
unavertible  death  of  her  husband  to  some  acci- 
dent, some  heedlessness.  And  so  she  directed  her 
unwavering  purpose  to  this  end. 

The  Polish  peddler  had  slipped  into  Toni's 
hand  not  only  the  arsenic  but  also  the  deadly- 
little  discs  called  "crows  eyes."  These  must 
help  her,  if  used  with  proper  care  and  circum- 
spection. 

One  day  while  little  Amanda  was  playing  in 
the  yard  with  other  girls,  she  found  among  the 
empty  kerosene  barrels  a  few  delightful,  silvery 
discs,  no  larger  then  a  ten  pfennig  piece.  With 
great  delight  she  brought  them  to  her  mother 
who,  attending  to  her  knitting,  had  ceased  for  a 
moment  to  watch  the  children. 

"What's  that.  Mama?" 

"I  don't  know,  my  darling." 

"May  we  play  with  them?" 

"What  would  you  like  to  play?" 

"We  want  to  throw  them." 

"Nto,  don't  do  that.  But  I'll  make  you  a  new 
doll-carriage  and  these  will  be  lovely  wheels." 

The  children  assented  and  Amanda  brought 
a  pair  of  scissors  in  order  to  make  holes  in  the 
little  wheels.  But  they  were  too  hard  and  the 
points  of  the  blades  slipped. 


THE  PURPOSE  123 

*'Ask  father  to  use  his  small  gimlet." 

Amanda  ran  to  the  open  window  behind  which 
he  for  whom  all  this  was  prepared  was  quietly 
making  out  his  monthly  bills. 

Toni's  breath  failed.  If  he  recognised  the 
poisonous  fruits,  it  was  all  over  with  her  plan. 
But  the  risk  was  not  to  be  avoided. 

He  looked  at  the  discs  for  a  moment.  And 
yet  for  another.  No,  he  did  not  know  their 
nature  but  was  rather  pleased  with  them.  It  did 
not  even  occur  to  him  to  warn  the  little  girl  to 
beware  of  the  unknown  fruit. 

He  called  into  the  shop  ordering  an  apprentice 
to  bring  him  a  tool-case.  The  boy  in  his  blue 
apron  came  and  Toni  observed  that  his  eyes 
rested  upon  the  fruits  for  a  perceptible  intervaL 
Thus  there  was,  in  addition  to  the  children,  an- 
other witness  and  one  who  would  be  admitted  to 
oath. 

Weigand  bored  holes  into  four  of  the  discs  and 
threw  them,  jesting  kindly,  into  the  children's 
apron.  The  others  he  kept.  "He  has  pro- 
nounced his  own  condenmation,"  Toni  thought 
as  with  trembling  fingers  she  mended  an  old  toy 
to  fit  the  new  wheels. 

Nothing  remained  but  to  grind  the  proper 
dose  with  cinnamon,  to  sweeten  it — according  to 
instructions — and  spice  a  rice-pudding  there- 
with. 


124  THE   PURPOSE 

But  fate  which,  in  this  dehcate  matter,*  had 
been  hostile  to  her  from  the  beginning,  ordained 
it  otherwise. 

For  that  very  evening  came  the  apothecary, 
not,  as  a  rule,  a  timid  person.  He  was  pale  and 
showed  Weigand  the  fruits.  He  had,  by  the 
merest  hair-breadth,  prevented  his  little  girl 
Marie  from  nibbling  one  of  them. 

The  rest  followed  as  a  matter  of  course.  The 
new^  wheels  were  taken  from  the  doll-carriage, 
all  fragments  were  carefully  sought  out  and  all 
the  discs  were  given  to  the  apothecary  who  locked 
them  into  his  safe. 

"The  red-headed  girl  must  be  sacrificed  after 
all,"  Toni  thought. 

She  planned  and  schemed,  but  she  could  think 
of  no  way  by  which  the  waitress  could  be  saved 
from  that  destruction  which  hung  over  her. 

There  was  no  room  for  further  hesitation.  The 
path  had  to  be  trodden  to  its  goal.  Whether  she 
left  corpses  on  the  way-side,  whether  she  herself 
broke  down  dead  at  the  goal — it  did  not  matter. 
That  plan  of  her  life  which  rivetted  her  fate  to 
her  beloved's  forever  demanded  that  she  proceed. 

The  old  physician  came  hurrying  to  the  inn 
next  morning.  He  was  utterly  confounded  by 
the  scarcely  escaped  horrors. 

"You  really  look,"  he  said  to  Toni,  "asr  if  you 
had  swallowed  some  of  the  stuff,  too." 


THE  PURPOSE  125 

**Oh,  I  suppose  my  fate  will  overtake  me  in 
the  end,"  she  answered  with  a  weary  smile.  "I 
feel  it  in  my  bones :  there  will  be  some  misfortune 
in  our  house." 

"For  heaven's  sake!"  he  cried,  "Put  that  red- 
headed beast  into  the  street." 

"It  isn't  she!  I'll  take  my  oath  on  that,"  she 
said  eagerly  and  thought  that  she  had  done  a 
wonderfully  clever  thing. 

She  waited  in  suspense,  fearing  that  the 
authorities  would  take  a  closer  look  at 
this  last  incident.  She  was  equipped  for 
any  search — even  one  that  might  pene- 
trate to  her  own  bed-room.  For  she  had  put 
false  bottoms  into  the  little  medicine-boxes.  Be- 
neath these  she  kept  the  arsenic.  On  top  lay 
harmless  magnesia.  The  boxes  themselves  stood 
on  her  toilet-table,  exposed  to  all  eyes  and  hence 
withdrawn  from  all  suspicion. 

She  waited  till  evening,  but  nobody  came. 
And  vet  the  connection  between  this  incident  and 
the  former  one  seemed  easy  enough  to  establish. 
However  that  might  be,  she  assigned  the  final 
deed  to  the  very  next  day.  And  why  wait?  An 
end  had  to  be  made  of  this  torture  of  hesitation 
which,  at  every  new  scruple,  seemed  to  freeze  her 
very  heart's  blood.  Furthermore  the  finding  of 
the  "crow's  eyes"  would  be  of  use  in  leading 
justice  astray. 


126  THE  PURPOSE 

To-morrow,  then     .     .     .    to-morrow.   .    .    „ 

Weigand  had  gone  to  bed  early.  But  Toni  sat 
behind  the  door  of  the  public  room  and,  through 
a  slit  of  the  door,  listened  to  every  movement 
of  the  waitress.  She  had  kept  near  her  all  even- 
ing. She  scarcely  knew  why.  But  a  strange, 
dull  hope  would  not  die  in  her — a  hope  that  some- 
thing might  happen  whereby  her  unsuspecting 
victim  and  herself  might  both  be  saved. 

The  clock  struck  one.  The  public  rooms  were 
all  but  empty.  Only  a  few  young  clerks  re- 
mained. These  were  half -drunk  and  made  rough 
advances  to  the  waitress. 

She  resisted  half-serious,  half -jesting. 

"You  go  out  and  cool  yourselves  in  the  night- 
air.    I  don't  care  about  such  fellows  as  you." 

"I  suppose  you  want  only  counts  and  barons," 
one  of  them  taunted  her.  "I  suppose  you 
wouldn't  even  think  the  county-counsellor  good 
enough!" 

"That's  my  affair,"  she  answered,  "as  to  who 
is  good  enough  for  me.  I  have  my  choice.  I  can 
get  any  man  I  want." 

They  laughed  at  her  and  she  flew  into  a  rage. 

"If  you  weren't  such  a  beggarly  crew  and  had 
anything  to  bet,-  I'd  wager  you  any  money  that 
I'd  seduce  any  man  I  want  in  a  week.  In  a  week, 
do  I  say?    In  three  days!    Just  name  the  man." 

Antonie  quivered  sharply  and  then  sank  with 


THE  PURPOSE  127 

closed  eyes,  against  the  back  of  her  chair.  A 
dream  of  infinite  bliss  stole  through  her  being. 
Was  there  salvation  for  her  in  this  world?  Could 
this  coarse  creature  accomplish  that  in  which 
beauty  and  refinement  had  failed? 

Could  she  be  saved  from  becoming  a  mur- 
deress ?  Would  it  be  granted  her  to  remain  hu- 
man, with  a  human  soul  and  a  human  face? 

But  this  was  no  time  for  tears  or  weakening. 

With  iron  energy  she  summoned  all  her 
strength  and  quietude  and  wisdom.  The  mo- 
ment was  a  decisive  one. 

When  the  last  guests  had  gone  and  all  serv- 
ants, too,  had  gone  to  their  rest,  she  called  the 
waitress,  with  some  jesting  reproach,  into  her 
room. 

A  long  whispered  conversation  followed.  At 
its  end  the  woman  declared  that  the  matter  was 
child's  play  to  her. 

And  did  not  suspect  that  by  this  game  she  was 
saving  her  life. 


VII. 

In  hesitant  incredulity  Antonie  awaited  the 
things  that  were  to  come. 

On  the  first  day  a  staggering  thing  happened. 
The  red-headed  woman,  scolding  at  the  top  of 
her  voice,  threw  down  a  beer-glass  at  her  master's 
feet,  upon  which  he  immediately  gave  her  notice. 

Toni's  newly-awakened  hope  sank.  The 
woman  had  boasted.  And  what  was  worse  than 
all:  if  the  final  deed  could  be  accomplished,  her 
compact  with  the  waitress  would  damn  her.  The 
woman  would  of  course  use  this  weapon  ruth- 
lessly.   The  affair  had  never  stood  so  badl}^. 

But  that  evening  she  breathed  again.  For 
Weigand  declared  that  the  waitress  seemed  to 
have  her  good  qualities  too  and  her  heart-felt 
prayers  had  persuaded  him  to  keep  her. 

For  several  days  nothing  of  significance  took 
place  except  that  Weigand,  whenever  he  men- 
tioned the  waitress,  peered  curiously  aside.  And 
this  fact  Toni  interpreted  in  a  favorable  light. 

Almost  a  week  passed.  Then,  one  day,  the 
waitress  approached  Toni  at  an  unwonted  hour. 

"If  you'll  just  peep  into  my  room  this  after- 


noon.    .     .     ." 


128 


THE  PURPOSE  12g 

Toni  followed  directions.  .  .  .  The  poor 
substitute  crept  down  the  stairs — cau^t  and 
powerless.  He  followed  his  wife  who  knelt  sob- 
bing beside  their  bed.  She  was  not  to  be  com- 
forted, nor  to  be  moved.  She  repulsed  him  and 
wept  and  wept. 

Weigand  had  never  dreamed  that  he  was  so 
passionately  loved.  The  more  violent  was  the 
anger  of  the  deceived  wife.  .  .  .  She  de- 
manded divorce,  instant  divorce.     .     .     . 

He  begged  and  besought  and  adjured.  In 
vain. 

Next  he  enlisted  the  sympathy  of  his  father- 
in-law  who  had  taken  no  great  interest  in  the 
business  during  these  years,  but  was  content  if 
the  money  he  had  invested  in  it  paid  the  necessary 
six  per  cent,  promptly. 

The  old  man  came  immediately  and  made  a 
scene  with  his  recalcitrant  daughter. 
There  was  the  splendid  business  and  the  heavy 
investment !  She  was  not  to  think  that  he  would 
give  her  one  extra  penny.  He  would  simply 
withdraw  his  capital  and  let  her  and  the  child 
starve. 

Toni  did  not  even  deign  to  reply. 

The  suit  progressed  rapidly.  The  unequivocal 
testimony  of  the  waitress  rendered  any  protest 
nugatory. 

Three  months  later  Toni  put  her  possessions 


130  THE  PURPOSE 

on  a  train,  took  her  child,  whom  the  deserted 
father  followed  with  an  inarticulate  moan,  and 
travelled  to  Koenigsberg  where  she  rented  a 
small  flat  in  order  to  await  in  quiet  the  reunion 
with  her  beloved. 

The  latter  was  trying  to  work  up  a  practice  in 
a  village  close  to  the  Russian  border.  He  wrote 
that  things  were  going  slowly  and  that,  hence, 
he  must  be  at  his  post  night  and  day.  So  soon  as 
he  had  the  slightest  financial  certainty  for  his 
wife  and  child,  he  would  come  for  them. 

And  so  she  awaited  the  coming  of  her  life's 
happiness.  She  had  little  to  do,  and  passed  many 
happy  hours  in  imagining  how  he  would  rush  in — 
by  yonder  passage — through  this  very  door — ^tall 
and  slender  and  impassioned  and  press  her  to  his 
wildly  throbbing  heart.  And  ever  again,  though 
she  knew  it  to  be  a  foolish  dream,  did  she  see  the 
blue  white  golden  scarf  upon  his  chest  and  the 
blue  and  gold  cap  upon  his  blond  curls. 

Lonely  widows — even  those  of  the  divorced 
variety — find  friends  and  ready  sympathy  in  the 
land  of  good  hearts.  But  Antonie  avoided  every- 
one who  sought  her  society.  Under  the  ban  of 
her  great  secret  purpose  she  had  ceased  to  re- 
gard men  and  women  except  as  they  could  be 
turned  into  the  instruments  of  her  will.  And  her 
use  for  them  was  over.  As  for  their  merely  hu- 
man    character     and     experience — ^^Toni     saw: 


THE  PURPOSE  131 

through  these  at  once.  And  it  all  seemed  to  her 
futile  and  trivial  in  the  fierce  reflection  of  those 
infernal  fires  through  which  she  had  had  to 
pass. 

Adorned  like  a  bride  and  waiting — thus  she 
lived  quietly  and  modestly  on  the  means  which 
her  divorced  husband — in  order  to  keep  his  own 
head  above  water — ^managed  to  squeeze  out  of 
the  business. 

Suddenly  her  father  died.  People  said  that 
his  death  was  due  to  unconquerable  rage  over 
her  folly.     ... 

She  buried  him,  bearing  herself  all  the  while 
with  blameless  filial  piety  and  then  awoke  to  the 
fact  that  she  was  rich. 

She  wrote  to  her  beloved:  "Don't  worry  an- 
other day.  We  are  in  a  position  to  choose  the 
kind  of  life  that  pleases  us." 

He  wired  back:    "Expect  me  to-morrow." 

Full  of  delight  and  anxiety  she  ran  to  the 
mirror  and  discovered  for  the  thousandth  time, 
that  she  was  beautiful  again.  The  results  of 
poisoning  had  disappeared,  crime  and  degrada- 
tion had  burned  no  marks  into  her  face.  She 
stood  there — a  ruler  of  life.  Her  whole  being 
seemed  sure  of  itself,  kindly,  open.  Only  the 
wild  glance  might,  at  times,  betray  the  fact  that 
there  was  much  to  conceal. 

She  kept  wakeful  throughout  the  night,  as  she 


132  THE  PURPOSE 

had  done  through  many  another.  Plan  after 
plan  passed  through  her  busy  brain.  It  was 
with  an  effort  that  she  realised  the  passing  of 
such  grim  necessities. 


^ 


yiii. 

A  BUNCH  of  crysanthemums  stood  on  the  table, 
asters  in  vases  on  dresser  and  chiffonier — colour- 
ful and  scentless. 

Antonie  wore  a  dress  of  black  lace  that  had 
been  made  by  the  best  dress-maker  in  the  city 
for  this  occasion.  In  festive  array  she  desired  to 
meet  her  beloved  and  yet  not  utterly  discard  the 
garb  of  filial  grief.  But  she  had  dressed  the 
child  in  white,  with  white  silk  stockings  and  sky- 
blue  ribands.  It  was  to  meet  its  father  like  the 
incarnate  spirit  of  approaching  happiness. 

From  the  kitchen  came  the  odours  of  the 
choicest  autumn  dishes — roast  duck  with  apples 
and  a  grape-cake,  such  as  she  alone  knew  how  to 
prepare.  Two  bottles  of  precious  Rhine  wine 
stood  in  the  cool  without  the  window.  She  did 
not  want  to  welcome  him  with  champagne.  The 
memories  of  its  subtle  prickling,  and  of  much 
else  connected  therewith,  nauseated  her. 

If  he  left  his  village  at  six  in  the  morning  he 
must  arrive  at  noon. 

And  she  waited  even  as  she  had  waited  seven 
years.    This  morning  seven  hours  had  been  left, 

133 


134  THE  PURPOSE 

there  were  scarcely  seven  minutes  now.  And 
then — the  door-hell  rang. 

"That  is  the  new  uncle,"  she  said  to  Amanda 
who  was  handling  her  finery,  flattered  and  aston- 
ished, and  she  wondered  to  note  her  brain  grow 
suddenly  so  cool  and  clear. 

A  gentleman  entered.  A  strange  gentleman. 
Wholly  strange.  Had  she  met  him  on  the  street 
she  would  not  have  known  him. 

He  had  grown  old — forty,  fifty,  an  hundred 
years.  Yet  his  real  age  could  not  be  over  twenty- 
eight!     . 

He  had  grown  fat.  He  carried  a  little  paunch 
about  with  him,  round  and  comfortable.  And  the 
honourable  scars  gleamed  in  round  red  cheeks. 
His  eyes  seemed  small  and  receding.     . 

And  when  he  said:  "Here  I  am  at  last,"  it 
was  no  longer  the  old  voice,  clear  and  a  little 
resonant,  which  had  echoed  and  re-echoed  in  her 
spiritual  ear.  He  gurgled  as  though  he  had 
swallowed  dumplings. 

But  when  he  took  her  hand  and  smiled,  some- 
thing slipt  into  his  face — something  affectionate 
and  quiet,  empty  and  without  guile  or  suspicion. 

Where  was  she  accustomed  to  this  smile?  To 
be  sure ;  in  Amanda.    An  indubitable  inheritance. 

And  for  the  sake  of  this  empty  smile  an  affec- 
tionate feehng  for  this  stranger  came  into  her 
heart. 


THE  PURPOSE  135 

She  helped  him  take  off  his  overcoat.  He 
wore  a  pair  of  great,  red-lined  rubber  goloshes, 
typical  of  the  country  doctor.  He  took  these  off 
carefully  and  placed  them  with  their  toes  toward 
the  wall. 

"He  has  grown  too  pedantic,"  she  thought. 

Then  all  three  entered  the  room.  When  Toni 
saw  him  in  the  light  of  day  she  missed  the  blue 
white  golden  scarf  at  once.  But  it  would  have 
looked  comical  over  his  rounded  paunch.  And 
yet  its  absence  disillusioned  her.  It  seemed  to 
her  as  if  her  friend  had  doffed  the  halo  for  whose 
sake  she  had  served  him  and  looked  up  to  him  so 
long. 

As  for  him,  he  regarded  her  with  unconcealed 
admiration. 

"Well,  well,  one  can  be  proud  of  you!"  he  said, 
sighing  deeply,  and  it  almost  seemed  as  if  with 
this  sigh  a  long  and  heavy  burden  lifted  itself 
from  his  soul. 

"He  was  afraid  he  might  have  to  be  ashamed 
of  me,"  she  thought  rebelliously.  As  if  to  pro- 
tect herself  she  pushed  the  little  girl  between 
them. 

"Here  is  Amanda,"  she  said,  and  added  with  a 
bitter  smile:    "Perhaps  you  remember." 

But  he  didn't  even  suspect  the  nature  of  that 
which  she  wanted  to  make  him  feel. 

"Oh,  I've  brought  something  for  you,  little 


136  THE  PURPOSE 

one!"  he  cried  with  the  delight  of  one  who  recalls 
an  important  matter  in  time.  With  measured 
step  he  trotted  back  into  the  hall  and  brought  out 
a  flat  paste-board  box  tied  with  pink  ribands. 
He  opened  it  very  carefully  and  revealed  a  layer 
of  chocolate-creams  wrapped  in  tin-foil  and  of- 
fered one  to  Amanda. 

And  this  action  seemed  to  him,  obviously,  to 
satisfy  all  requirements  in  regard  to  his  prelimin- 
ary relations  to  the  child. 

Antonie  felt  the  approach  of  a  head-ache  sucK 
as  she  had  now  and  then  ever  since  the  arsenic 
poisoning. 

"You  are  probably  hungry,  dear  Robert,"  she 
said. 

He  wouldn't  deny  that.  "If  one  is  on  one's 
legs  from  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  on,  you 
know,  and  has  nothing  in  one's  stomach  but  a 
couple  of  little  sausages,  you  know!" 

He  said  all  that  with  the  same  cheerfulness 
that  seemed  to  come  to  him  as  a  matter  of  course 
and  yet  did  not  succeed  in  wholly  hiding  an  inner 
diffidence. 

They  sat  down  at  the  table  and  Antonie,  tak- 
ing pleasure  in  seeing  to  his  comfort,  forgot  for 
a  moment  the  foolish  ache  that  tugged  at  her 
body  and  at  her  soul. 

The  wine  made  him  talkative.  He  related 
everything  that  interested  him — ^his  professional 


THE  PURPOSE  137 

trips  across  country,  the  confinements  that  some- 
times came  so  close  together  that  he  had  to  spend 
twenty-four  hours  in  his  buggy.  Then  he  told 
of  the  tricks  by  which  people  whose  lives  he  had 
just  saved  sought  to  cheat  him  out  of  his  modest 
fees.  And  he  told  also  of  the  comfortable  card- 
parties  with  the  judge  and  the  village  priest. 
And  how  funny  it  was  when  the  inn-keeper's 
tame  starling  promenaded  on  the  cards.     .     . 

Every  word  told  of  cheerful  well-being  and 
unambitious  contentment. 

"He  doesn't  think  of  our  common  future,"  a 
torturing  suspicion  whispered  to  her. 

But  he  did. 

*'I  should  like  to  have  you  try,  first  of  all, 
Toni,  to  live  there.  It  isn't  easy.  But  we  can 
both  stand  a  good  deal,  thank  God,  and  if 
we  don't  like  it  in  the  end,  why,  we  can  move 
away." 

And  he  said  that  so  simply  and  sincerely  that 
her  suspicion  vanished. 

And  with  this  returning  certitude  there  re- 
turned, too,  the  ambition  which  she  had  always 
nurtured  for  him. 

"How  would  it  be  if  we  moved  to  Berlin,  or 
jsomewhere  where  there  is  a  university?" 

"And  maybe  aim  at  a  professorship?"  he  cried 
with  cheerful  irony.  "No,  Tonichen,  all  your 
money  can't  persuade  me  to  that.    I  crammed 


188  THE  PURPOSE 

enough  in  that  damned  medieal  school.  I've  got 
my  income  and  that's  good  enough  for  me." 

A  feeling  of  disgust  came  over  her.  She 
seemed  to  perceive  the  stuflpy  odour  of  unventi- 
lated  rooms  and  of  decaying  water  in  which 
flowers  had  stood. 

"That  is  what  I  suffered  for,"  involuntarily  the 
thought  came,  "that!" 

After  dinner  when  Amanda  was  sleeping  off 
the  effects  of  the  little  sip  of  wine  which  she  had 
taken  when  they  let  her  clink  glasses  with  them, 
they  sat  opposite  each  other  beside  the  geraniums 
of  the  window-box  and  fell  silent.  He  blew 
clouds  of  smoke  from  his  cigar  into  the  air 
and  seemed  not  disinclined  to  indulge  in  a  nap, 
too. 

Leaning  back  in  her  wicker  chair  she  observed 
him  uninterruptedly.  At  one  moment  it  seemed 
to  her  as  though  she  caught  an  intoxicating  rem- 
nant of  the  slim,  pallid  lad  to  whom  she  had 
given  her  love.  And  then  again  came  the  cor- 
roding doubt :  "Was  it  for  him,  for  him.  ..." 
And  then  a  great  fear  oppressed  her  heart,  be- 
cause this  man  seemed  to  live  in  a  world  which 
she  could  not  reach  in  a  whole  life's  pilgrimage. 
Walls  had  arisen,  between  them,  doors  had  been 
bolted — doors  that  rose  from  the  depths  of  the 
earth  to  the  heights  of  heaven.  .  .  .  As  he 
sat  there,  surrounded  by  the  blue  smoke  of  his 


THE  PURPOSE  139 

cigar,  he  seemed  more  and  more  to  recede  into 
immeasurable  distances.     . 

Then,  suddenly,  as  if  an  inspiration  had  come 
to  him,  he  pulled  himself  together,  and  his  face 
became  serious,  almost  solemn.  He  laid  the  cigar 
down  on  the  window-box  and  pulled  out  of  his 
inner  pocket  a  bundle  of  yellow  sheets  of  paper 
and  blue  note-books. 

"I  should  have  done  this  a  long  time  ago,"  he 
said,  "because  we've  been  free  to  correspond  with 
each  other.    But  I  put  it  off  to  our  first  meet- 

ing." 

"Done  what?"  she  asked,  seized  by  an  uncom- 
fortable curiosity. 

"Why,  render  an  accounting." 

"An  accounting?" 

"But  dear  Toni,  surely  you  don't  think  me 
either  ungrateful  or  dishonourable.  For  seven 
years  I  have  accepted  one  benefaction  after  an- 
other from  you.  .  .  .  That  was  a  very  pain- 
ful situation  for  me,  dear  child,  and  I  scarcely 
believe  that  the  circumstances,  had  thev  been 
known,  would  ever  have  been  countenanced  by  a 
court  of  honour." 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  confess  I  never 
thought  of  that  consideration.     . 

"But  I  did  all  the  more,  for  that  very  reason. 
And  only  the  consciousness  that  I  would  some 
day  be  able  to  pay  you  the  last  penny  of  my  debt 


140  THE  PURPOSE 

sustained  me  in  my  consciousness  as  a  decent 
fellow." 

"Ah,  well,  if  that's  the  case,  go  ahead!"  she 
said,  suppressing  the  bitter  sarcasm  that  she  felt. 

First  came  the  receipts :  The  proceeds  of  the 
stolen  jewels  began  the  long  series.  Then  fol- 
lowed the  savings  in  fares,  food  and  drink  and 
the  furniture  rebates.  Next  came  the  presents 
of  the  county-coimsellor,  the  profits  of  the  cham- 
pagne debauches  during  which  she  had  flung 
shame  and  honour  under  the  feet  of  the  drinking 
men.  She  was  spared  nothing,  but  heard  again 
of  sums  gained  by  petty  thefts  from  the  till, 
small  profits  made  in  the  buying  of  milk  and 
eggs.  It  was  a  long  story  of  suspense  and  long- 
ing, an  inextricable  web  of  falsification  and 
trickery,  of  terror  and  lying  without  end.  The 
memory  of  no  guilt  and  no  torture  was  spared 
her. 

Then  he  took  up  the  account  of  his  expendi- 
tures. He  sat  there,  eagerl}^  handling  the  papers, 
now  frowning  heavily  when  he  could  not  at  once 
balance  some  small  sum,  now  stiffening  his 
double  chin  in  satisfied  self-righteousness  as  he 
explained  some  new  way  of  saving  that  had  oc- 
curred to  him.  ...  .  Again  and  again,  to  the 
point  of  weariness,  he  reiterated  solemnly:  "You 
see,  I'm  an  honest  man." 

And  always  when  he  said  that,  a  weary  irony 


THE  PURPOSE  141 

prompted  her  to  reply :  "Ah,  what  that  honesty 
has  cost  me."     .     .     .     But  she  held  her  peace. 

And  again  she  wanted  to  cry  out :  "Let  be !  A 
woman  like  myself  doesn't  care  for  these  two- 
penny decencies."  But  she  saw  how  deep  an 
inner  necessity  it  was  to  him  to  stand  before  her 
in  this  conventional  spotlessness.  And  so  she 
didn't  rob  him  of  his  child-like  joy. 

At  last  he  made  an  end  and  spread  out  the 
little  blue  books  before  her — there  was  one  for 
each  year.  "Here,"  he  said  proudly,  "you  can 
go  over  it  yourself.    It's  exact." 

"It  had  better  be!"  she  cried  with  a  jesting 
threat  and  put  the  little  books  under  a  flower- 
pot. 

A  prankish  mood  came  upon  her  now  which 
she  couldn't  resist. 

"Xow  that  this  important  business  is  at  an 
end,"  she  said,  "there  is  still  another  matter  about 
which  I  must  have  some  certainty." 

"What  is  that?"  he  said,  listening  intensely. 

"Have  you  been  faithful  to  me  in  all  this 
time?" 

He  became  greatly  confused.  The  scars  on  his 
left  cheek  glowed  like  thick,  red  cords. 

"Perhaps  he's  got  a  betrothed  somewhere,"  she 
thought  with  a  kind  of  woeful  anger,  "whom  he's 
going  to  throw  over  now." 

But  it  wasn't  that.    Not  at  all. 


142  THE  PURPOSE 

"Well,"  he  said,  "there's  no  help  for  it.  I'll 
confess.  And  anyhow,  youve  even  been  married 
in  the  meantime." 

"I  would  find  it  difficult  to  deny  that,"  she 
said. 

And  then  everything  came  to  light.  During 
the  early  days  in  Berlin  he  had  been  very  inti- 
mate with  a  waitress.  Then,  when  he  was  an 
assistant  in  the  surgical  clinic,  there  had  been  a 
sister  who  even  wanted  to  be  married.  "But  I 
made  short  work  of  that  proposition,"  he  ex- 
plained with  quiet  decision.  And  as  for  the 
Lithuanian  servant  girl  whom  he  had  in  the 
house  now,  why,  of  course  he  would  dismiss  her 
next  morning,  so  that  the  house  could  be  thor- 
oughly aired  before  she  moved  in. 

This  was  the  moment  in  which  a  desire  came 
upon  her — half-ironic,  half-compassionate — ^to 
throw  her  arms  about  him  and  say:  "You  silly 
boy!" 

But  she  did  not  yield  and  in  the  next  moment 
the  impulse  was  gone.  Only  an  annoyed  envy 
remained.  He  dared  to  confess  everything  to 
her — everything.  What  if  she  did  the  same?  If 
he  were  to  leave  her  in  horrified  silence,  what 
would  it  matter  ?  She  would  have  freed  her  soul. 
Or  perhaps  he  would  flare  up  in  grateful  love? 
It  was  madness  to  expect  it.  No  power  of  heaven 
or  earth  could  burst  open  the  doors  or  demolish 


THE  PURPOSE  143 

the  walls  that  towered  between  them  for  all 
eternity. 

A  vast  irony  engulfed  her.  She  could  not  rest 
her  soul  upon  this  pigmy.  She  felt  revengeful 
rather  toward  him — revengeful,  because  he  could 
sit  there  opposite  her  so  capable  and  faithful,  so 
truthful  and  decent,  so  utterly  unhke  the  com- 
panion whom  she  needed. 

Toward  twilight  he  grew  restless.  He  wanted 
to  slip  over  to  his  mother  for  a  moment  and 
then,  for  another  moment,  he  wanted  to  drop 
in  at  the  fraternity  inn.  He  had  to  leave  at 
eight. 

"It  would  be  better  if  you  remained  until  to- 
morrow," she  said  with  an  emphasis  that  gave 
him  pause. 

"Why?" 

"If  you  don't  feel  that.     .     .     ." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

It  wasn't  to  be  done,  he  assured  her,  with  the 
best  will  in  the  world.  There  was  an  investiga- 
tion in  which  he  had  to  help  the  county-physician. 
A  small  farmer  had  died  suddenly  of  what  did 
not  seem  an  entirely  natural  death.  "I  suppose," 
he  continued,  "one  of  those  love  philtres  was  used 
with  which  superfluous  people  are  put  under 
ground  there.  It's  horrible  that  a  decent  person 
has  to  live  among  such  creatures.  If  you  don't 
care  to  do  it,  I  can  hardly  blame  you." 


144  THE  PURPOSE 

She  had  grown  pale  and  smiled  weakly.  She 
restrained  him  no  longer. 

"I'll  be  back  in  a  week,"  he  said,  slipping  on 
his  goloshes,  "and  then  we  can  annoimce  the  en- 
gagement." 

She  nodded  several  times  but  made  no  reply. 

The  door  was  opened  and  he  leaned  toward 
her.    Calmly  she  touched  his  lips  with  hers. 

"You  might  have  the  announcement  cards 
printed,"  he  called  cheerfully  from  the  stairs. 

Then  he  disappeared.     . 

"Is  the  new  uncle  gone?"  Amanda  asked.  She 
was  sitting  in  her  little  room,  busy  with  her  les- 
sons.   He  had  forgotten  her. 

The  mother  nodded. 

"Will  he  come  back  soon?" 

Antonie  shook  her  head. 

"I  scarcely  think  so,"  she  answered. 

That  night  she  broke  the  purpose  of  her  life, 
the  purpose  that  had  become  interwoven  with  a 
thousand  others,  and  when  the  morning  came  she 
wrote  a  letter  of  farewell  to  the  beloved  of  her 
youth. 


SONG  OF   DEATH 


THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

With  faint  and  quivering  beats  the  clock  of 
the  hotel  announced  the  hour  to  the  promenaders 
on  the  beach. 

"It  is  time  to  eat,  Nathaniel,"  said  a  slender, 
yet  well-filled-out  young  woman,  who  held  a 
book  between  her  fingers,  to  a  formless  bundle, 
huddled  in  many  shawls,  by  her  side.  Painfully 
the  bundle  unfolded  itself,  stretched  and  grew 
gradually  into  the  form  of  a  man — ^hollow 
chested,  thin  legged,  narrow  shouldered,  attired 
in  flopping  garments,  such  as  one  sees  by  the 
thousands  on  the  coasts  of  the  Riviera  in  winter. 

The  midday  glow  of  the  sun  burned  down 
upon  the  yellowish  gray  wall  of  cliff  into  which 
the  promenade  of  Nervi  is  hewn,  and  which 
slopes  down  to  the  sea  in  a  zigzag  of  towering 
bowlders. 

Upon  the  blue  mirror  of  the  sea  sparkled  a 
silvery  meshwork  of  sunbeams.  So  vast  a  full- 
ness of  light  flooded  the  landscape  that  even  the 
black  cypress  trees  which  stood,  straight  and 
tall,  beyond  the  garden  walls,  seemed  to  glit- 
ter with  a  radiance  of  their  own. 

147 


148        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

The  tide  was  silent.  Only  the  waters  of  the 
imprisoned  springs  that  poured,  covered  with 
iridescent  bubbles,  into  the  hollows  between  the 
rocks,  gurgled  and  sighed  wearily. 

The  breakfast  bell  brought  a  new  pulsation 
of  life  to  the  huddled  figures  on  the  beach. 

"He  who  eats  is  cured,"  is  the  motto  of  the 
weary  creatures  whose  arms  are  often  too  weak 
to  carry  their  forks  to  their  mouths.  But  he 
who  comes  to  this  land  of  eternal  summer  merely 
to  ease  and  rest  his  soul,  trembles  with  hunger 
in  the  devouring  sweetness  of  the  air  and  can 
scarcely  await  the  hour  of  food. 

With  a  gentle  compulsion  the  young  woman 
pushed  the  thin,  wrinkled  hand  of  the  invalid 
under  her  arm  and  led  him  carefully  through 
a  cool  and  narrow  road,  which  runs  up  to  the 
town  between  high  garden  walls  and  through 
which  a  treacherous  draught  blows  even  on  the 
sunniest   daj^s. 

"Are  you  sure  your  mouth  is  covered?"  she 
asked,  adapting  her  springy  gait  with  difficulty 
to  the  dragging  steps  of  her  companion. 

An  inarticulate  murmur  behind  the  heavy 
shawl  w^as  his  only  answer. 

She  stretched  her  throat  a  little — a  round, 
white,  firm  throat,  with  two  little  folds  that  lay 
rosy  in  the  rounded  flesh.  Closing  her  eyes, 
she  inhaled  passionately  the  aromatic  perfumes 


THE    SONG   OF   DEATH        149 

of  the  neighbouring  gardens.  It  was  a  strange 
mixture  of  odours,  like  that  which  is  wafted 
from  the  herb  chamber  of  an  apothecary.  A 
wandering  sunbeam  glided  over  the  firm,  short 
curve  of  her  cheek,  which  was  of  almost  milky 
whiteness,  save  for  the  faint  redness  of  those 
veins  which  sleepless  nights  bring  out  upon  the 
pallid  faces  of  full-blooded  blondes. 

A  laughing  group  of  people  went  swiftly  by 
— white-breeched  Englishmen  and  their  ladies. 
The  feather  boas,  whose  ends  fluttered  in  the 
wind,  curled  tenderly  about  slender  throats,  and 
on  the  reddish  heads  bobbed  little  round  hats, 
smooth  and  shining  as  the  tall  head-gear  of  a 
German  postillion. 

The  young  woman  cast  a  wistful  glance  after 
those  happy  folk,  and  pressed  more  firmly  the 
arm  of  her  suffering  husband. 

Other  groups  followed.  It  was  not  diflficult 
to  overtake  this  pair. 

"We'll  be  the  last,  Mary,"  Nathaniel  mur- 
mured, with  the  invalid's  ready  reproach. 

But  the  young  woman  did  not  hear.  She 
listened  to  a  soft  chatting,  which,  carried  along 
between  the  sounding-boards  of  these  high  walls, 
was  clearly  audible.  The  conversation  was 
conducted  in  French,  and  she  had  to  summon 
her  whole  stock  of  knowledge  in  order  not  to  lose 
the  full  sense  of  what  was  said. 


150        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

"I  hope,  Madame,  that  your  uncle  is  not  seri- 
ously ill?" 

"Not  at  all,  sir.  But  he  likes  his  comfort. 
And  since  walking  bores  him,  he  prefers  to  pass 
his  days  in  an  armchair.  And  it's  my  function 
to  entertain  him."  An  arch,  pouting  voila  closed 
the  explanation. 

Next  came  a  little  pause.  Then  the  male 
voice  asked: 

"And  are  you  never  free,  Madame?" 

"Almost  never." 

"And  may  I  never  again  hope  for  the  happi- 
ness of  meeting  you  on  the  beach?" 

"But  surely  you  may!" 

^'Mille  remerciments,  Madame." 

A  strangely  soft  restrained  tone  echoed  in  this 
simple  word  of  thanks.  Secret  desires  mur- 
mured in  it  and  unexpressed  confessions. 

Mary,  although  she  did  not  look  as  though 
she  were  experienced  in  flirtation  or  advances, 
made  a  brief,  timid  gesture.  Then,  as  though 
discovered  and  ashamed,  she  remained  very  still. 

Those  two  then.  .  .       That's  who  it  was.  .  . 

And  they  had  really  made  each  others'  ac- 
quaintance ! 

She  was  a  delicately  made  and  elegant 
Frenchwoman.  Her  bodice  was  cut  in  a 
strangely  slender  way,  which  made  her  seem  to 
glide  along  like  a  bird.    Or  was  it  her  walk 


THE    SONG   OF   DEATH        151 

that  caused  the  phenomenon?  Or  the  exquisite 
arching  of  her  shoulders?  Who  could  tell?  .  .  . 
She  did  not  take  her  meals  at  the  common  table, 
but  in  a  comer  of  the  dining-hall  in  company  of 
an  old  gouty  gentleman  with  white  stubbles  on 
his  chin  and  red-lidded  eyes.  When  she  en- 
tered the  hall  she  let  a  smiling  glance  glide  along 
the  table,  but  without  looking  at  or  saluting  any 
one.  She  scarcely  touched  the  dishes — at  least 
from  the  point  of  view  of  Mary's  sturdy  appe- 
tite— but  even  before  the  soup  was  served  she 
nibbled  at  the  dates  meant  for  dessert,  and  then 
the  bracelets  upon  her  incredibly  delicate  wrists 
made  a  strange,  fairy  music.  She  wore  a  wed- 
ding ring.  But  it  had  always  been  open  to 
doubt  whether  the  old  gentleman  was  her  hus- 
band. For  her  demeanour  toward  him  was  that 
of  a  spoiled  but  sedulously  watched  child. 

And  he — he  sat  opposite  Mary  at  table.  He 
was  a  very  dark  young  man,  with  black,  melan- 
choly eyes — Italian  eyes,  one  called  them  in  her 
Pomeranian  home  land.  He  had  remarkably 
white,  narrow  hands,  and  a  small,  curly  beard, 
which  was  clipped  so  close  along  the  cheeks  that 
the  skin  itself  seemed  to  have  a  bluish  shim- 
mer. He  had  never  spoken  to  Mary,  presum- 
ably because  he  knew  no  German,  but  now 
and  then  he  would  let  his  eyes  rest  upon  her 
with  a  certain  smiling  emotion  which  seemed  to 


152        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH  f 

heir  to  be  very  blameworthy  and  which  filled  her 
with  confusion.  Thus,  however,  it  had  come  to 
pass  that,  whenever  she  got  ready  to  go  to  table 
her  thoughts  were  busy  with  him,  and  it  was  not 
rare  for  her  to  ask  herself  at  the  opening  of 
the  door  to  the  dining-hall:  "I  wonder  whether 
he's  here  or  will  come  later?" 

For  several  days  there  had  been  noticeable  in 
this  young  man  an  inclination  to  gaze  over  his 
left  shoulder  to  the  side  table  at  which  the 
young  Frenchwoman  sat.  And  several  times 
this  glance  had  met  an  answering  one,  however 
fleeting.  And  more  than  that!  She  could  be 
seen  observing  him  with  smiling  consideration 
as,  between  the  fish  and  the  roast,  she  pushed 
one  grape  after  another  between  her  lips.  He 
was,  of  course,  not  cognisant  of  all  that,  but 
Mary  knew  of  it  and  was  surprised  and  slightly 
shocked. 

And  they  had  really  made  each  others'  ac- 
quaintance ! 

And  now  they  were  both  silent,  thinking,  ob- 
viously, that  they  had  but  just  come  within 
hearing  distance. 

Then  they  hurried  past  the  slowly  creeping 
couple.  The  lady  looked  downward,  kicking 
pebbles ;  the  gentleman  bowed.  It  was  done  seri- 
ously, discreetly,  as  befits  a  mere  neighbour  at 
table. 


THE   SONG   OF   DEATH        153 

Mary  blushed.  That  happened  often,  far  too 
often.  And  she  was  ashamed.  Thus  it  hap- 
pened that  she  often  blushed  from  fear  of  blush- 
ing. 

The  gentleman  saw  it  and  did  not  smile.  She 
thanked  him  for  it  in  her  heart,  and  blushed  all 
the  redder,  for  he  might  have  smiled. 

"We'll  have  to  eat  the  omelettes  cold  again," 
the  invalid  mumbled  into  his  shawls. 

This  time  she  understood  him. 

"Then  we'll  order  fresh  ones." 

"Oh,"  he  said  reproachfully,  "you  haven't  the 
courage.    You're  always  afraid  of  the  waiters." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  melancholy  smile. 

It  was  true.  She  was  afraid  of  the  waiters. 
That  could  not  be  denied.  Her  necessary  deal- 
ings with  these  dark  and  shiny-haired  gentlemen 
in  evening  clothes  were  a  constant  source  of  fear 
and  annoyance.  They  scarcely  gave  themselves 
the  trouble  to  understand  her  bad  French  and 
her  worse  Italian.  And  when  they  dared  to 
smile   .    .    .    ! 

But  his  concern  had  been  needless.  The  break- 
fast did  not  consist  of  omelettes,  but  of  maca- 
roni boiled  in  water  and  mixed  with  long  strings 
of  cheese.    He  was  forbidden  to  eat  this  dish. 

Mary  mixed  his  daily  drink,  milk  with  brandy, 
and  was  happy  to  see  the  eagerness  with  which 
he  absorbed  the  life-giving  fumes. 


154        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

The  dark  gentleman  was  already  in  his  seat 
opposite  her,  and  every  now  and  then  the  glance 
of  his  velvety  eyes  glided  over  her.  She  was 
more  keenly  conscious  of  this  glance  than  ever, 
and  dared  less  than  ever  to  meet  it.  A  strange 
feeling,  half  delight  and  half  resentment,  over- 
came her.  And  yet  she  had  no  cause  to  com- 
plain that  his  attention  passed  the  boundary  of 
rigid  seemliness. 

She  stroked  her  heavy  tresses  of  reddish 
blonde  hair,  which  curved  madonna-like  over  her 
temples.  They  had  not  been  crimped  or  curled, 
but  were  simple  and  smooth,  as  befits  the  wife  of 
a  North  German  clergyman.  She  would  have 
liked  to  moisten  with  her  lips  the  fingers  with 
which  she  stroked  them.  This  was  the  only  art 
of  the  toilet  which  she  knew.  But  that  would 
have  been  improper  at  table. 

He  wore  a  yellow  silk  shirt  with  a  pattern  of 
riding  crops.  A  bunch  of  violets  stuck  in  his  but- 
ton-hole.   Its  fragrance  floated  across  the  table. 

Now  the  young  Frenchwoman  entered  the 
hall  too.  Very  carefully  she  pressed  her  old 
uncle's  arm,  and  talked  to  him  in  a  stream  of 
charming  chatter. 

The  dark  gentleman  quivered.  He  com- 
pressed his  lips  but  did  not  turn  around. 
Neither  did  the  lady  take  any  notice  of  him. 
She  rolled  bread  pellets  with  her  nervous  fingers, 


/ 


THE    SONG   OF   DEATH        155 

played  with  her  bracelets  and  let  the  dishes  go 
by  untouched. 

The  long  coat  of  cream  silk,  which  she  had 
put  on,  increased  the  tall  flexibility  of  her  form. 
A  being  woven  of  sunlight  and  morning  dew, 
unapproachable  in  her  serene  distinction — thus 
she  appeared  to  Mary,  whose  hands  had  been 
reddened  by  early  toil,  and  whose  breadth  of 
shoulder  was  only  surpassed  by  her  simplicity 
of  heart. 

When  the  roast  came  Nathaniel  revived 
slightly.  He  suffered  her  to  fasten  the  shawl 
about  his  shoulders,  and  rewarded  her  with  a 
contented  smile.  It  was  her  sister  Anna's  opin- 
ion that  at  such  moments  he  resembled  the  Sa- 
viour. The  eyes  in  their  blue  hollows  gleamed 
with  a  ghostly  light,  a  faint  rosiness  shone  upon 
his  cheek-bones,  and  even  the  blonde  beard  on 
the  sunken  cheeks  took  on  a  certain  glow. 

Grateful  for  the  smile,  she  pressed  his  arm. 
She  was  satisfied  with  so  little. 

Breakfast  was  over.  The  gentleman  opposite 
made  his  silent  bow  and  arose. 

"Will  he  salute  her?"  Mary  asked  herself 
with  some  inner  timidity. 

No.  /He  withdrew  without  glancing  at  the 
corner  {table. 

"Perhaps  they  have  fallen  out  again,"  Marjr 
said  to  herself. 


156        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

The  lady  looked  after  him.  A  gentle  smile 
played  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth — a  su- 
perior, almost  an  ironical  smile.  Then,  her  eyes 
still  turned  to  the  door,  she  leaned  across  toward 
the  old  gentleman  in  eager  questioning. 

"She  doesn't  care  for  him,"  Mary  reasoned, 
with  a  slight  feeling  of  satisfaction.  It  was  as 
though  some  one  had  returned  to  her  what  she 
had  deemed  lost. 

He  had  been  gone  long,  but  his  violets  had 
left  their  fragrance. 

Mary  went  up  to  her  room  to  get  a  warmer 
shawl  for  Nathaniel.  As  she  came  out  again, 
she  saw  in  the  dim  hall  the  radiant  figure  of  the 
French  lady  come  toward  her  and  open  the  door 
to  the  left  of  her  own  room. 

"So  we  are  neighbours,"  Mary  thought,  and 
felt  flattered  by  the  proximity.  She  would  have 
liked  to  salute  her,  but  she  did  not  dare. 

Then  she  accompanied  Nathaniel  down  to 
the  promenade  on  the  beach.  The  hours 
dragged  by. 

He  did  not  like  to  have  his  brooding  medita- 
tion interrupted  by  questions  or  anecdotes.  These 
hours  were  dedicated  to  getting  well.  Every 
breath  here  cost  money  and  must  be  utilised  to 
the  utmost.  Here  breathing  was  religion,  and 
falling  ill  a  sin. 

Mary  looked  dreamily  out  upon  the  sea,  to 


THE    SONG   OF   DEATH        157 

which  the  afternoon  sun  now  lent  a  deeper  blue. 
Light  wreaths  of  foam  eddied  about  the  stones. 
In  wide  semicircles  the  great  and  shadowy  arms 
of  the  mountains  embraced  the  sea.  From 
the  far  horizon,  in  regions  of  the  upper  air, 
came  from  time  to  time  an  argent  gleam.  For 
there  the  sun  was  reflected  by  unseen  fields  of 
snow. 

There  lay  the  Alps,  and  beyond  them,  deep 
buried  in  fog  and  winter,  lay  their  home  land. 

Thither  Mary's  thoughts  wandered.  They 
wandered  to  a  sharp-gabled  little  house,  groan- 
ing under  great  weights  of  snow,  by  the  strand 
of  a  frozen  stream.  The  house  was  so  deeply 
hidden  in  bushes  that  the  depending  boughs  froze 
fast  in  the  icy  river  and  were  not  liberated  till 
the  tardy  coming  of  spring. 

And  a  hundred  paces  from  it  stood  the  white 
church  and  the  comfortable  parsonage.  But 
what  did  she  care  for  the  parsonage,  even  though 
she  had  grown  to  womanhood  in  it  and  was  now 
its  mistress? 

That  little  cottage — ^the  widow's  house,  as  the 
country  folk  called  it — that  little  cottage  held 
everything  that  was  dear  to  her  at  home.  There 
sat  by  the  green  tile  oven — and  oh,  how  she 
missed  it  here,  despite  the  palms  and  the  goodly 
sun — her  aged  mother,  the  former  pastor's 
widow,  and  her  three  older  sisters,  dear  and 


I  "■- 


158        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

blonde  and  thin  and  almost  faded.  There  they 
sat,  worlds  away,  needy  and  laborious,  and  liv- 
ing but  in  eaeh  others'  love.  Four  years  had 
passed  sinee  the  father  had  been  carried  to  the 
God's  acre  and  they  had  had  to  leave  the  par- 
sonage. 

That  had  marked  the  end  of  their  happiness 
and  their  youth.  They  could  not  move  to  the 
city,  for  they  had  no  private  means,  and  the  gifts 
of  the  poor  congregation,  a  dwelling,  wood  and 
other  donations,  could  not  be  exchanged  for 
money.  And  so  they  had  to  stay  there  quietly 
and  see  their  lives  wither. 

The  candidate  of  theology,  Nathaniel  Pogge, 
equipped  with  mighty  recommendations,  came  to 
deliver  his  trial  sermon. 

As  he  ascended  the  pulpit,  long  and  frail,  flat- 
chested  and  narrow  shouldered,  she  saw  him  for 
the  first  time.  His  emaciated,  freckled  hand 
which  held  the  hymn  book,  trembled  with  a  kind 
of  fever.  But  his  blue  eyes  shone  with  the  fires 
of  God.  To  be  sure,  his  voice  sounded  hollow 
and  hoarse,  and  often  he  had  to  struggle  for 
breath  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence.  But  what 
he  said  was  wise  and  austere,  and  found  favour 
in  the  eyes  of  his  congregation. 

His  mother  moved  with  him  into  the  parson- 
age. She  was  a  small,  fussy  lady,  energetic  and 
yery  business-like,  who  complained  of  what  she 


THE   SONG   OF  DEATH        159 

called  previous  mismanagement  and  seemed  to 
avoid  friendly  relations. 

But  her  son  found  his  way  to  the  widow's 
house  for  all  that.  He  found  it  oftener  and 
oftener,  and  the  only  matter  of  uncertainty  was 
as  to  which  of  the  four  sisters  had  impressed  him. 

She  would  never  have  dreamed  that  his  eye 
had  fallen  upon  her,  the  youngest.  But  a  re- 
fusal was  not  to  be  thought  of.  It  was  rather 
her  duty  to  kiss  his  hands  in  gratitude  for  taking 
her  off  her  mother's  shoulders  and  liberating  her 
from  a  hopeless  situation.  Certainly  she  would 
not  have  grudged  her  happiness  to  one  of  her 
sisters ;  if  it  could  be  called  happiness  to  be  sub- 
Iject  to  a  suspicious  mother-in-law  and  the  nurse 
of  a  valetudinarian.  But  she  tried  to  think  it 
happiness.  And,  after  all,  there  was  the  widow's 
house,  to  which  one  could  slip  over  to  laugh  or 
to  weep  one's  fill,  as  the  mood  of  the  hour  dic- 
tated. Either  would  have  been  frowned  upon 
at  home. 

And  of  course  she  loved  him. 

Assuredly.  How  should  she  not  have  loved 
him?  Had  she  not  sworn  to  do  so  at  the  altar? 
And  then  his  condition  grew  worse  from  day 
to  day  and  needed  her  love  all  the  more. 

It  happened  ever  oftener  that  she  had  to  get 
up  at  night  to  heat  his  moss  tea;  and  ever  more 
breathlessly  he  cowered  in  the  sacristy  after  his 


160        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

weekly  sermon.  And  that  lasted  until  the  hem- 
orrhage came,  which  made  the  trip  south  impera- 
tive. 

Ah,  and  with  what  grave  anxieties  had  this 
trip  been  undertaken!  A  substitute  had  to  be 
procured.  Their  clothes  and  fares  swallowed  the 
salary  of  many  months.  They  had  to  pay  four- 
teen francs  board  a  day,  not  to  speak  of  the  ex- 
tra expenses  for  brandj^  milk,  fires  and  drugs. 
Nor  was  this  counting  the  physician  who  came 
daily.    It  w^as  a  desperate  situation. 

But  he  recovered.  At  least  it  was  unthinkable 
that  he  shouldn't.  What  object  else  would  these 
sacrifices  have  had? 

He  recovered.  The  sun  and  sea  and  air  cured 
him;  or,  at  least,  her  love  cured  him.  And  this 
love,  which  Heaven  had  sent  her  as  her  highest 
duty,  surrounded  him  like  a  soft,  warm  garment, 
exquisitely  flexible  to  the  movement  of  every 
limb,  not  hindering,  but  yielding  to  the  shghtest 
impulse  of  movement;  forming  a  protection 
against  the  rough  winds  of  the  world,  surer  than 
a  wall  of  stone  or  a  cloak  of  fire. 

The  sun  sank  down  toward  theisea.  His  light 
assumed  a  yellow,  metallic  hue,  hard  and  wound- 
ing, before  it  changed  and  softened  into  violet 
and  purple  shades.  The  group  of  pines  on  the 
beach  seemed  drenched  in  a  sulphurous  light  and 
the  clarity  of  their  outlines  hurt  the  eye.    Like 


THE   SONG  OF   DEATH        161 

a  heavy  and  compact  mass,  ready  to  hurtle  down, 
the  foliage  of  the  gardens  bent  over  the  crum- 
bling walls.  From  the  mountains  came  a  gusty 
wind  that  announced  the  approaching  fall  of 
night. 

The  sick  man  shivered.  Mary  was  about  to 
suggest  their  going  home,  when  she  perceived 
.the  form  of  a  man  that  had  intruded  between 
her  and  the  sinking  sun  and  that  was  surrounded 
by  a  yellow  radiance.  She  recognised  the  dark 
gentleman. 

A  feeling  of  restlessness  overcame  her,  but  she 
could  not  turn  her  eyes  from  him.  Always,  when 
he  was  near,  a  strange  presentiment  came  to  her 
— a  dreamy  knowledge  of  an  unknown  land. 
This  impression  varied  in  clearness.  To-night 
she  was  fully  conscious  of  it. 

What  she  felt  was  difficult  to  put  into  words. 
She  seemed  almost  to  be  afraid  of  him.  And 
yet  that  was  impossible,  for  what  was  he  to  her? 
She  wasn't  even  interested  in  him.  Surely  not. 
His  eyes,  his  violet  fragrance,  the  flexible  ele- 
gance of  his  movements — ^these  things  merely 
aroused  in  her  a  faint  curiosity.  Strictly  speak- 
ing, he  wasn't  even  a  sympathetic  personality, 
and  had  her  sister  Lizzie,  who  had  a  gift  for  sa- 
tire, been  here,  they  would  probably  have  made 
fun  of  him.  The  anxious  unquiet  which  he  in- 
spired must  have  some  other  source. 


162        THE    SONG    OF   DEATH 

Here  in  the  south  everything  was  so  different 
— richer,  more  colourful,  more  vivid  than  at 
home.  The  sim,  the  sea,  houses,  flowers,  faces — 
upon  them  all  lay  more  impassioned  hues.  Be- 
hind all  that  there  must  be  a  secret  hitherto  un- 
revealed  to  her. 

She  felt  this  secret  everywhere.  It  lay  in 
the  heavy  fragrance  of  the  trees,  in  the  soft 
swinging  of  the  palm  leaves,  in  the  multitudin- 
ous burgeoning  and  bloom  about  her.  It  lay  in 
the  long-drawn  music  of  the  men's  voices,  in 
the  caressing  laughter  of  the  women.  It  lay  in 
the  flaming  blushes  that,  even  at  table,  mantled 
her  face;  in  the  delicious  languor  that  pervaded 
her  limbs  and  seemed  to  creep  into  the  inner- 
most marrow  of  her  bones. 

But  this  secret  which  she  felt,  scented  and  ab- 
sorbed with  every  organ  of  her  being,  but  which 
was  nowhere  to  be  grasped,  looked  upon  or  rec- 
ognised— this  secret  was  in  some  subtle  way  con- 
nected with  the  man  who  stood  there,  irradiated, 
upon  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  gazed  upon  the 
ancient  tower  which  stood,  unreal  as  a  piece  of 
stage  scenery,  upon  the  path. 

Now  he  observed  her. 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  though  he  were 
about  to  approach  to  address  her.  In  his  char- 
acter of  a  neighbour  at  table  he  might  well 
have  ventured  to  do  so.    But  the  hasty  gesture 


THE    SONG   OF   DEATH        163 

with  which  she  turned  to  her  sick  husband  for- 
bade it. 

"That  would  be  the  last  inconvenience,"  Mary 
thought,  "to  make  acquaintances." 

But  as  she  was  going  home  with  her  husband, 
she  surprised  herself  in  speculation  as  to  how 
she  might  have  answered  his  words. 

"My  French  will  go  far  enough,"  she  thought, 
"At  need  I  might  have  risked  it." 

The  following  day  brought  a  sudden  lapse  in 
her  husband's  recovery. 

"That  happens  often,"  said  the  physician,  a 
bony  consumptive  with  the  manners  of  a  man  of 
the  world  and  an  equipment  in  that  inexpensive 
courtesy  which  doctors  are  wont  to  assume  in 
hopeless  and  poorly  paying  cases. 

To  listen  to  him  one  would  think  that  pul- 
monary consumption  ended  in  invariable  im- 
provement. 

"And  if  something  happens  during  the  night  ?" 
Mary  asked  anxiously. 

"Then  just  wait  quietly  until  morning,"  the 
doctor  said  with  the  firm  decision  of  a  man  who 
doesn't  like  to  have  his  sleep  disturbed. 

Nathaniel  had  to  stay  in  bed  and  Mary  was 
forced  to  request  the  waiters  to  bring  meals  up 
to  their  room. 

Thus  passed  several  days,  during  which  she 
scarcely  left  the  sick-bed  of  her  husband.    And 


164        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

when  she  wasn't  writing  home,  or  reading  to 
him  from  the  hymn  book,  or  cooking  some  easing 
draught  upon  the  spirit  lamp,  she  gazed  dream- 
ily out  of  the  window. 

She  had  not  seen  her  beautiful  neighbour 
again.  With  all  the  more  attention  she  sought 
to  catch  any  sound,  any  word  that  might  give 
her  a  glimpse  into  the  radiant  Paradise  of  that 
other  life. 

A  soft  singing  ushered  in  the  day.  Then  fol- 
lowed a  laughing  chatter  with  the  little  maid, 
accompanied  by  the  rattle  of  heated  curling-irons 
and  splashing  of  bath  sponges.  Occasionally, 
too,  there  was  a  little  dispute  on  the  subject  of 
ribands  or  curls  or  such  things.  Mary's  French, 
which  was  derived  from  the  Histoire  de  Charles 
douze,  the  Aventures  de  Telemaque  and  other 
lofty  books,  found  an  end  when  it  came  to  these 
discussions. 

About  half -past  ten  the  lady  slipped  from  her 
room.  Then  one  could  hear  her  tap  at  her 
uncle's  door,  or  call  a  laughing  good-morning  to 
him  from  the  hall. 

From  now  on  the  maid  reigned  supreme  in 
the  room.  She  straightened  it,  sang,  rattled  the 
curling-irons  even  longer  than  for  her  mistress, 
tripped  up  and  down,  probably  in  front  of  the 
mirror,  and  received  the  kindly  attentions  of  sev- 
eral waiters. 


THE    SONG   OF   DEATH        165 

From  noon  on  everything  was  silent  and  re- 
mained silent  until  dusk.  Then  the  lady  re- 
turned. The  little  songs  she  sang  were  of  the 
very  kind  that  one  might  well  sing  if,  with  full 
heart,  one  gazes  out  upon  the  sea,  while  the 
orange-blossoms  are  fragrant  and  the  boughs  of 
the  eucalyptus  rustle.  They  proved  to  Mary 
that  in  that  sunny  creature,  as  in  herself,  there 
dwelt  that  gentle,  virginal  yearning  that  had 
always  been  to  her  a  source  of  dreamy  happi- 
ness. 

At  half-past  five  o'clock  the  maid  knocked  at 
the  door.  Then  began  giggling  and  whispering 
as  of  two  school-girls.  Again  sounded  the  rattle 
of  the  curling-irons  and  the  rustling  of  silken 
skirts.  The  fragrance  of  unknown  perfumes  and 
essences  penetrated  into  Mary's  room,  and  she 
absorbed  it  eagerly. 

The  dinner-bell  rang  and  the  room  was  left 
empty. 

At  ten  o'clock  there  resounded  a  merry: 
"Bonne  nuit,  mon  oncler 

Angeline,  the  maid,  received  her  mistress  at 
the  door  and  performed  the  necessary  services 
more  quietly  than  before.  Then  she  went  out, 
received  by  the  waiters,  who  were  on  the  stairs. 

Then  followed,  in  there,  a  brief  evening 
prayer,  carelessly  and  half  poutingly  gabbled  as 
by  a  tired  child. 


166        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

At  eleven  the  keyliole  grew  dark.  And  dur- 
ing the  hours  of  JNIary's  heaviest  service,  there 
sounded  witliin  the  peaceful  drawing  of  uninter- 
rupted hreath. 

This  breathing  was  a  consolation  to  her  during 
the  terrible,  creeping  liours,  whose  paralysing 
nionotou}-  was  only  interrupted  by  anxious  crises 
in  the  patient's  condition. 

The  breathing  seemed  to  her  a  greeting  from 
a  pure  and  sisterly  soul — a  greeting  from  that 
dear  land  of  joy  where  one  can  laugh  by  day 
and  sing  in  the  dusk  and  sleep  by  night. 

Nathaniel  loved  the  hymns  for  the  dying. 

He  asserted  that  they  filled  him  with  true 
mirth.  The  more  he  could  gibe  at  hell  or  hear 
the  suffering  of  the  last  hours  put  to  scorn,  the 
more  could  he  master  a  kind  of  grim  humour. 
He,  the  shepherd  of  souls,  felt  it  his  duty  to  ven- 
ture upon  the  valley  of  the  shadow  to  which  he 
had  so  often  led  the  trembling  candidate  of  death, 
with  the  boldness  of  a  hero  in  battle. 

This  poor,  timid  soul,  who  had  never  been  able 
to  endure  the  angry  barking  of  a  dog,  played 
with  the  terror  of  death  like  a  bull-necked  gladi- 
ator. 

"Read  me  a  sgng  of  death,  but  a  strengthen- 
ing one,"  he  would  say  repeatedly  during  the 
day,  but  also  at  night,  if  he  could  not  sleep.  He 
needed  it  as  a  child  needs  its  cradle  song. 


THE    SONG   OF   DEATH        167 

Often  he  was  angry  when  in  her  confusion  and 
blinded  by  unshed  tears,  she  chose  a  wrong  one. 
Like  a  literary  connoisseur  who  rolls  a  Horatian 
ode  or  a  Goethean  lyric  upon  his  tongue — even 
thus  he  enjoyed  these  sombre  stanzas. 

There  was  one:  "I  haste  to  my  eternal  home," 
in  which  the  beyond  was  likened  to  a  bridal 
chamber  and  to  a  "crystal  sea  of  blessednesses." 
There  was  another:  "Greatly  rejoice  now,  O  my 
soul,"  which  would  admit  no  redeeming  feature 
about  this  earth,  and  was  really  a  prayer  for 
release.  And  there  was  one  filled  with  the  pur- 
est folly  of  Christendom:  "In  peace  and  joy  I 
fare  from  hence."  And  this  one  promised  a 
smiling  sleep.  But  they  were  all  overshadowed 
by  that  rejoicing  song:  "Thank  God,  the  hour 
has  come!"  which,  like  a  cry  of  victory,  points 
proudly  and  almost  sarcastically  to  the  con- 
quered miseries  of  the  earth. 

The  Will  to  Live  of  the  poor  flesh  intoxicated 
itself  with  these  pious  lies  as  with  some  hypnotic 
drug.  But  at  the  next  moment  it  recoiled  and 
gazed  yearningly  and  eager  eyed  out  into  the 
sweet  and  sinful  world,  which  didn't  tally  in  the 
least  with  that  description  of  it  as  a  vale  of  tears, 
of  which  the  hymns  were  so  full. 

Mary  read  obediently  what  he  demanded. 
Close  to  her  face  she  held  the  narrow  hymn-book, 
fighting  down  her  sobs.     For  he  did  not  think 


168        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

of  the  tortures  he  prepared  for  his  anxiously 
hoping  wife. 

Why  did  he  thirst  for  death  since  he  knew 
that  he  must  not  die? 

Not  yet.  Ah,  not  yet!  Nbw  that  suddenly 
a  whole,  long,  unlived  life  lay  between  them — a 
life  they  had  never  even  suspected. 

She  could  not  name  it,  this  new,  rich  life,  but 
she  felt  it  approaching,  day  by  day.  It  breathed 
its  fragrant  breath  into  her  face  and  poured  an 
exquisite  bridal  warmth  into  her  veins. 

It  was  on  the  fourth  day  of  his  imprisonment 
in  his  room.  The  physician  had  promised  him 
permission  to  go  out  on  the  morrow. 

His  recovery  was  clear. 

She  sat  at  the  window  and  inhaled  with  quiv- 
ering nostrils  the  sharp  fragrance  of  the  burning 
pine  cones  that  floated  to  her  in  bluish  waves. 

The  sun  was  about  to  set.  An  unknown  bird 
sat,  far  below,  in  the  orange  grove  and,  as  if 
drunk  with  light  and  fragrance,  chirped  sleepily 
and  ended  with  a  fluting  tone. 

Now  that  the  great  dread  of  the  last  few  days 
was  taken  from  her,  that  sweet  languor  the  sig- 
nificance of  which  she  could  not  guess  came  over 
her  again. 

Her  neighbour  had  already  come  home.  She 
opened  her  window  and  closed  it,  only  to  open  it 
again.    From  time  to  time  she  sang  a  few  brief 


THE    SONG   OF   DEATH        169 

tones,  almost  like  the  strange  bird  in  the  grove. 

Then  her  door  rattled  and  Angeline's  voice 
cried  out  with  jubilant  laughter:  '*Une  lettre, 
Madame,  une  lettre!" 

"Une  lettre — de  qui?** 

'Be  hiir 

Then  a  silence  fell,  a  long  silence. 

Who  was  this  "he?"  Surely  some  one  at  home. 
It  was  the  hour  of  the  mail  delivery. 

But  the  voice  of  the  maid  soon  brought  en- 
lightenment. 

She  had  managed  the  affair  cleverly.  She  had 
met  him  in  the  hall  and  saluted  him  so  that  he 
had  found  the  courage  to  address  her.  And 
just  now  he  had  pressed  the  envelope,  together 
with  a  twenty-franc  piece,  into  her  hand.  He 
asserted  that  he  had  an  important  communication 
to  make  to  her  mistress,  but  had  never  found  an 
opportunity  to  address  himself  to  her  in  person. 

"Tais-toi  done — on  nous  entend!" 

And  from  now  on  nothing  was  to  be  heard  but 
whispering  and  giggling. 

Mary  felt  now  a  wave  of  hotness,  started  from 
her  nape  and  overflowing  her  face. 

Listening  and  with  beating  heart,  she  sat  there. 

What  in  all  the  world  could  he  have  written? 
For  that  it  was  he,  she  could  no  longer  doubt. 

Perhaps  he  had  declared  his  love  and  begged 
for  the  gift  of  her  hand. 


170        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

A  dull  feelinpj  of  pain,  the  cause  of  which  was 
dark  to  her,  oppressed  her  heart. 

And  then  she  smiled — a  smile  of  renounce- 
ment, although  there  was  surely  nothing  here 
for  her  to  renounce ! 

And  anyhow — the  thing  was  impossible.  For 
she,  to  whom  such  an  offer  is  made  does  not  chat 
with  a  servant  girl.  Such  an  one  flees  into  some 
loneh^  place,  kneels  down,  and  prays  to  God  for 
enlightenment  and  grace  in  face  of  so  important 
a  step. 

But  indeed  she  did  send  the  girl  away,  for 
the  latter's  slippers  could  be  heard  trailing  along 
the  hall. 

Then  was  heard  gentle,  intoxicated  laughter, 
full  of  restrained  jubilation  and  arch  triumph: 
'^O  comme  je  suis  heureuse!  Comme  je  suis 
heureuse!" 

Mary  felt  her  eyes  grow"  moist.  She  felt  glad 
and  poignantly  sad  at  the  same  time.  She  would 
have  liked  to  kiss  and  bless  the  other  woman,  for 
now  it  was  clear  that  he  had  come  to  claim  her 
as  his  bride. 

"If  she  doesn't  pray,  I  will  pray  for  her,"  she 
thought,  and  folded  her  hands.  Then  a  voice 
sounded  behind  her,  hollow  as  the  roll  of  falling 
earth;  rasping  as  coffin  cords: 

"Read  me  a  song  of  death,  Mary." 

A  shudder  came  over  her.     She  jumped  up. 


THE    SONG   OF   DEATH        171 

A»d  she  who  had  hitherto  taken  up  the  hjmin- 
book  at  his  command  without  hesitation  or  com- 
plaint, fell  down  beside  his  bed  and  grasped  his 
emaciated  arm:    "Have  pity — I  can't!    I  can't!" 

Three  days  passed.  The  sick  man  preferred 
to  stay  in  bed,  although  his  recovery  made  enor- 
mous strides.  Mary  brewed  his  teas,  gave  him  his 
drops,  and  read  him  his  songs  of  death.  That 
one  attempt  at  rebellion  had  remained  her  only 
one. 

She  heard  but  little  of  her  neighbour.  It 
seemed  that  that  letter  had  put  an  end  to  her 
talkative  merriment.  The  happiness  which  she 
had  so  jubilantly  confessed  seemed  to  have  been 
of  brief  duration. 

And  in  those  hours  when  Mary  was  free  to 
pursue  her  dreams,  she  shared  the  other's  yearn- 
ing and  fear.  Probably  the  old  uncle  had  made 
difficulties;  had  refused  his  consent,  or  even  de- 
manded the  separation  of  the  lovers. 

Perhaps  the  dark  gentleman  had  gone  away. 
Who  could  tell? 

"What  strange  eyes  he  had,"  she  thought  at 
times,  and  whenever  she  thought  that,  she  shiv- 
ered, for  it  seemed  to  her  that  his  hot,  veiled 
glance  was  still  upon  her. 

"I  wonder  whether  he  is  really  a  good  man?" 
she  asked  herself.  She  would  have  liked  to  an- 
swer this  question  in  the  affirmative,  but  there 


172        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

was  something  that  kept  her  from  doing  so.  And 
there  was  another  something  in  her  that  took 
but  little  note  of  that  aspect,  but  only  prayed 
that  those  two  might  be  happy  together,  happy 
as  she  herself  had  never  been,  happy  as — and 
here  lay  the  secret. 

It  was  a  Sunday  evening,  the  last  one  in  Jan- 
uary. 

Nathaniel  lay  imder  the  bed-clothes  and 
breathed  with  difficulty.  His  fever  was  remark- 
ably low,  but  he  was  badly  smothered. 

The  lamp  burned  on  the  table — a  reading 
lamp  had  been  procured  with  difficulty  and  had 
been  twice  carried  off  in  favour  of  wealthier 
guests.  Toward  the  bed  Mary  had  shaded  the 
lamp  with  a  piece  of  red  blotting  paper  from  her 
portfolio.  A  rosy  shimmer  poured  out  over  the 
couch  of  the  ill  man,  tinted  the  red  covers  more 
red,  and  caused  a  deceptive  glow  of  health  to 
appear  on  his  cheek. 

The  flasks  and  vials  on  the  table  glittered 
with  an  equivocal  friendliness,  as  though  some- 
thing of  the  demeanour  of  him  who  had  pre- 
scribed their  contents  adhered  to  them. 

Between  them  lay  the  narrow  old  hymnal  and 
the  gilt  figures,  '-'1795"  shimmered  in  the  middle 
of  the  worn  and  shabby  covers. 

The  hour  of  retirement  had  come.  The  latest 
of  the  guests,  returning  from  the  reading  room. 


THE    SONG   OF   DEATH        173 

had  said  good-night  to  each  other  in  the  hall. 
Angeline  had  been  dismissed.  Her  giggles 
floated  away  into  silence  along  the  bannisters  and 
the  last  of  her  adorers  tiptoed  by  to  turn  out  the 
lights. 

From  the  next  room  there  came  no  sound.  She 
was  surely  asleep,  although  her  breathing  was  in- 
audible. 

Mary  sat  at  the  table.  Her  head  was  heavy 
and  she  stared  into  the  luminous  circle  of  the 
lamp.  She  needed  sleep.  Yet  she  was  not 
sleepy.  Every  nerve  in  her  body  quivered  with 
morbid  energy. 

A  wish  of  the  invalid  called  her  to  his 
side. 

"The  pillow  has  a  lump,"  he  said,  and  tried  to 
turn  over  on  his  other  side. 

Ah,  these  pillows  of  sea-grass.  She  patted, 
she  smoothed,  she  did  her  best,  but  his  head  found 
no  repose. 

"Here's  another  night  full  of  the  torment  and 
terror  of  the  flesh,"  he  said  with  difficulty,  mouth- 
ing each  word. 

"Do  you  want  a  drink?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"The  stuff  is  bitter — but  you  see — ^this  fear — 
there's  the  air  and  it  fills  everything — ^they  say 
it's  ten  miles  high — and  a  man  like  myself  can't 
— get  enough — you  see  I'm  getting  greedy." 


174        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

The  mild  jest  upon  his  hps  was  so  unwonted 
that  it  frip^htcnod  her. 

"I'd  hkc  to  ask  you  to  open  the  window." 
She  opposed  him. 

"The  night  air,"  she  urged ;  "the  draught " 

But  that  upset  liim. 


(<' 


'If  you  can't  do  me  so  small  a  favour  in  my 
suffering " 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said,  "it  was  only  my  anx- 
iety for  you " 

She  got  up  and  opened  the  Freneh  window 
that  gave  upon  a  narrow  balcony. 

The  moonlight  flooded  the  room. 

Pressing  her  hands  to  her  breast,  she  inhaled 
the  first  aromatic  breath  of  the  night  air  which 
cooled  and  caressed  her  hot  face. 

"Is  it  better  so?"  she  asked,  turning  around. 

He  nodded.    "It  is  better  so." 

Then  she  stepped  out  on  the  balcony.  She 
could  scarcely  drink  her  fill  of  air  and  moonlight. 

But  she  drew  back,  affrighted.  What  she  had 
just  seen  was  like  an  apparition. 

On  the  neighbouring  balcony  stood,  clad  in 
white,  flowing  garments  of  lace,  a  woman's  fig- 
ure, and  stared  with  wide  open  eyes  into  the 
moonlight. 

It  was  she — her  friend. 

Softly  Mary  stepped  out  again  and  observed 
her,  full  of  shy  curiosity. 


THE    SONG   OF   DEATH        175 

The  moonlight  shone  full  upon  the  delicate 
slim  face,  that  seemed  to  shine  with  an  inner 
radiance.  The  eye  had  a  yearning  glow.  A 
smile,  ecstatic  and  fearful  at  once,  made  the  lips 
quiver,  and  the  hands  that  grasped  the  iron  rail- 
ing pulsed  as  if  in  fear  and  expectation. 

Mary  heard  her  own  heart  begin  to  beat.  A 
hot  flush  rose  into  her  face? 

What  was  all  that?    What  did  it  mean? 

Such  a  look,  such  a  smile,  she  had  never  seen 
in  her  life.  And  yet  both  seemed  infinitely  fa- 
miliar to  her.    Thus  a  woman  must  look  who 

She  had  no  time  to  complete  the  thought,  for 
a  fit  of  coughing  recalled  her  to  Xathaniel. 

A  motion  of  his  hand  directed  her  to  close  the 
window  and  the  shutters.  It  would  have  been 
better  never  to  have  opened  them.  Better  for 
her,  too,  perhaps. 

Then  she  sat  down  next  to  him  and  held  his 
head  until  the  paroxysm  was  over. 

He  sank  back,  utterlv  exhausted.  His  hand 
groped  for  hers.  With  abstracted  caresses  she 
touched  his  weary  fingers. 

Her  thoughts  dwelt  with  that  white  picture 
without.  That  poignant  feeling  of  happiness 
that  she  had  almost  lost  during  the  past  few  days, 
arose  in  her  with  a  hitherto  unknown  might. 

And  now  the  sick  man  began  to  speak. 

"You  have  always  been  good  to  me,  Marj^" 


176        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

he  said.  ",You  have  always  had  patience  with 
me. 

"Ah,  don't  speak  so,"  she  murmured. 

"And  I  wish  I  could  say  as  full  of  assurance 
as  you  could  before  the  throne  of  God :  *  Father, 
I  have  been  true  to  the  duty  which  you  have 
allotted  to  me.' " 

Her  hand  quivered  in  his.  A  feeling  of  revul- 
sion smothered  the  gentleness  of  their  mood.  His 
words  had  struck  her  as  a  reproach. 

Fulfillment  of  duty!  That  was  the  great  law 
to  which  all  human  kind  was  subject  for  the  sake 
of  God.  This  law  had  joined  her  hand  to  his, 
had  accompanied  her  into  the  chastity  of  her 
bridal  bed,  and  had  kept  its  vigil  through  the 
years  by  her  hearth  and  in  her  heart.  And  thus 
love  itself  had  not  been  difficult  to  her,  for  it 
was  commanded  to  her  and  consecrated  before 
the  face  of  God. 

And  he?  He  wished  for  nothing  more,  knew 
nothing  more.  Indeed,  what  lies  beyond  duty 
would  probably  have  seemed  burdensome  to  him, 
if  not  actually  sinful. 

But  there  was  something  more!  She  knew  it 
now.  She  had  seen  it  in  that  glance,  moist  with 
yearning,  lost,  in  the  light. 

There  was  something  great  and  ecstatic  and 
all-powerful,  something  before  which  she  quailed 
like  a  child  who  must  go  into  the  dark,  some- 


THE    SONG   OF   DEATH        177 

thing  that  she  desired  with  every  nerve  and 
fibre. 

Her  eye  fastened  itself  upon  the  purple  square 
of  blotting  paper  which  looked,  in  the  light  of 
the  lamp,  like  glowing  metal. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  had  sat  there. 
It  might  have  been  minutes  or  hours.  Often 
enough  the  morning  had  caught  her  brooding 
thus. 

The  sick  man's  breath  came  with  greater  diffi- 
culty, his  fingers  grasped  hers  more  tightly. 

"Do  you  feel  worse?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  a  little  afraid,"  he  said ;  "therefore,  read 
me " 

He  stopped,  for  he  felt  the  quiver  of  her  hand. 

"You  know,  if  you  don't  want  to "     He 

was  wounded  in  his  wretched  valetudinarian  ego- 
tism, which  was  constantly  on  the  scent  of  neg- 
lect. 

"Oh,  but  I  do  want  to;  I  want  to  do  every- 
thing that  might " 

She  hurried  to  the  table,  pushed  the  glittering 
bottles  aside,  grasped  the  hymnal  and  read  at 
random. 

But  she  had  to  stop,  for  it  was  a  prayer  for 
rain  that  she  had  begun. 

Then,  as  she  was  turning  the  leaves  of  the 
book,  she  heard  the  hall  door  of  the  next  room 
open  with  infinite  caution;    she    heard    flying. 


178        THE    SONG    OF    DEATH 

trembling  footsteps  cross  the  room  from  the  bal- 
cony. 

''Chili!"  whispered  a  trembling  voice. 

And  the  door  closed  as  with  a  weary  moan. 

What  was  that? 

A  suspicion  arose  in  her  that  brought  the  scar- 
let of  shame  into  her  cheek.  The  whispering  next 
door  began  anew,  passionate,  hasty,  half-smoth- 
ered by  anxiety  and  delight.  Two  voices  were  to 
be  distinguished :  a  lighter  voice  which  she  knew, 
and  a  duller  voice,  broken  into,  now  and  then,  by 
sonorous  tones. 

The  letters  dislimned  before  her  eyes.  The 
hymn-book  slipped  from  her  hands.  In  utter 
confusion  she  stared  toward  the  door. 

That  really  existed?  Such  things  were  possi- 
ble in  the  world;  possible  among  people  garbed 
in  distinction,  of  careful  Christian  training,  to 
whom  one  looks  up  as  to  superior  beings? 

There  was  a  power  upon  earth  that  could  make 
the  delicate,  radiant,  distinguished  woman  so  ut- 
terly forget  shame  and  dignity  and  womanliness, 
that  she  would  open  her  door  at  midnight  to  a 
man  who  had  not  been  wedded  to  her  in  the  sight 
of  God? 

If  that  could  happen,  what  was  there  left  to 
cling  to  in  this  world  ?  Where  was  one's  faith  in 
honour,  fidelity,  in  God's  grace  and  one's  own 
human  worth? 


THE    SONG   OF   DEATH        179 

[A.  horror  took  hold  of  her  so  oppressive  that 
she  thought  she  must  cry  out  aloud. 

With  a  shy  glance  she  looked  at  her  husband. 
God  grant  that  he  hear  nothing. 

She  was  ashamed  before  him.  She  desired  to 
call  out,  to  sing,  laugh,  only  to  drown  the  noise 
of  that  whispering  which  assailed  her  ear  like  the 
wave  of  a  fiery  sea. 

But  no,  he  heard  nothing. 

His  sightless  eyes  stared  at  the  ceiling.  He 
was  busied  with  his  breathing.  His  chest  heaved 
and  fell  like  a  defective  machine. 

He  didn't  even  expect  her  to  read  to  him  now. 
She  went  up  to  the  bed  and  asked,  listening  with 
every  nerve:  "Do  you  want  to  sleep,  Nathan- 
iel?" 

He  lowered  his  eyelids  in  assent. 

"Yes — read,"  he  breathed. 

"ShaU  I  read  softly?" 

Again  he  assented. 

"But  read — don't  sleep." 

Fear  flickered  in  his  eyes. 

"No,  no,"  she  stammered. 

He  motioned  her  to  go  now,  and  again  became 
absorbed  in  the  problem  of  breathing. 

Mary  took  up  the  hymnal. 

"You  are  to  read  a  song  of  death,"  she  said 
to  herself,  for  her  promise  must  be  kept.  And 
as  though  she  had  not  understood  her  own  ad- 


[■"■y-^^^ 


180        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

monition,  she  repeated :  "You  are  to  read  a  song 
of  death." 

But  her  hearing  was  morbidly  alert,  and  while 
the  golden  figures  on  the  book  danced  a  ghostly- 
dance  before  her  eyes,  she  heard  again  what  she 
desired  to  hear.  It  was  like  the  whispering  of 
the  wind  against  a  forbidden  gate.  She  caught 
words : 

'^Je  t*aime  —  follement  —  yen  mourrai  —  je 
f  adore — mon  amour — mon  amour/* 

Mary  closed  her  eyes.  It  seemed  to  her  again 
as  though  hot  waves  streamed  over  her.  And 
she  had  lost  shame,  too. 

For  there  was  something  in  all  that  which 
silenced  reproach,  which  made  this  monstrous  deed 
comprehensible,  even  natural.  If  one  was  so  mad 
with  love,  if  one  felt  that  one  could  die  of  it ! 

So  that  existed,  and  was  not  only  the  lying 
babble  of  romances  ? 

And  her  spirit  returned  and  compared  her  own 
experience  of  love  with  what  she  witnessed  now. 

She  had  shrunk  pitifully  from  his  first  kiss. 
When  he  had  gone,  she  had  embraced  her  moth- 
er's knees,  in  fear  and  torment  at  the  thought  of 
following  this  strange  man.  And  she  remem- 
bered how,  on.  the  evening  of  her  wedding,  her 
mother  had  whispered  into  her  ear,  "Endure,  my 
child,  and  pray  to  God,  for  that  is  the  lot  of 


woman." 


THE    SONG   OF  DEATH        181 

!Ajid  it  was  that  which,  until  to-day,  she  had 
called  love. 

Oh,  those  happy  ones  there,  those  happy  ones ! 

"Mary,"  the  hollow  voice  from  the  bed  came. 

She  jumped  up.    "  What?" 

"You— don't  read." 

"ni  read;  I'll  read." 

Her  hands  grovelled  among  the  rough,  sticky 
pages.  An  odour  as  of  decaying  foliage,  whicK 
she  had  never  noted  before,  came  from  the  book. 
It  was  such  an  odour  as  comes  from  dark,  ill- 
ventilated  rooms,  and  early  autumn  and  every- 
day clothes. 

At  last  she  found  what  she  was  seeking.  "Ky- 
rie  eleison!  Christe  eleison!  Dear  God,  Father 
in  heaven,  have  mercy  upon  us!" 

Her  lips  babbled  what  her  eyes  saw,  but  her 
heart  and  her  senses  prayed  another  prayer: 
"Father  in  Heaven,  who  art  love  and  mercy,  do 
not  count  for  sin  to  those  two  that  which  they  are 
committing  against  themselves.  Bless  their  love, 
even  if  they  do  not  desire  Thy  blessing.  Send 
faithfulness  into  their  hearts  that  they  cleave 
to  one  another  and  remain  grateful  for  the  bliss 
which  Thou  givest  them.  Ah,  those  happy  ones, 
those  happy  ones!" 

Tears  came  into  her  eyes.  She  bent  her  face 
upon  the  yellow  leaves  of  the  book  to  hide  her 
weeping. 


182        THE    SONG    OF    DEATH 

It  seemed  to  her  suddenly  as  though  she  un- 
derstood tlie  speeeh  spoken  in  this  land  of  eternal 
spring  hy  sun  and  sea,  hy  hedges  of  flowers  and 
evergreen  trees,  hy  the  song  of  hirds  and  the 
laughter  of  man.  Tlie  seeret  which  she  had 
souglvt  to  solve  by  day  and  by  night  lay  sud- 
denly revealed  before  her  eyes. 

In  a  sudden  change  of  feeling  her  heart  grew 
cold  toward  that  sinful  pair  for  %vhich  she  had 
but  just  prayed.  Those  people  became  as 
strangers  to  her  and  sank  into  the  mist.  Their 
w^hispering  died  away  as  if  it  came  from  a  great 
distance. 

It  was  her  own  life  with  which  she  was  now 
concerned.  Gray  and  morose  with  its  poverty 
stricken  notion  of  duty,  the  past  lay  behind  her. 
Bright  and  smiling  a  new  world  floated  into  her 
ken. 

She  had  sw^orn  to  love  him.  She  had  cheated 
him.     She  had  let  him  know  want  at  her  side. 

Now  that  she  knew  what  love  was,  she  would 
reward  him  an  hundred-fold.  She,  too,  could 
love  to  madness,  to  adoration,  to  death.  And 
she  must  love  so,  else  she  would  die  of  famish- 
ment. 

Her  heart  opened.  Waves  of  tenderness, 
stormy,  thunderous,  might}^,  broke  forth  there- 
from. 

Would  he  desire  all  that  love?    And  under- 


THE    SONG   OF   DEATH        183 

stand  it?  Was  he  worthy  of  it?  What  did  that 
matter? 

She  must  give,  give  without  measure  and  with- 
out reward,  without  thought  and  without  will, 
else  she  would  smother  under  all  her  riches. 

And  though  he  was  broken  and  famished  and 
mean  of  mind  and  wretched,  a  weakling  in  body 
and  a  dullard  in  soul;  and  though  he  lay  there 
emaciated  and  gasping,  a  skeleton  almost,  move- 
less, half  given  over  to  dust  and  decay — what  did 
it  matter? 

She  loved  him,  loved  him  with  that  new  and 
great  love  because  he  alone  in  all  the  world  was 
her  own.  He  was  that  portion  of  life  and  light 
and  happiness  which  fate  had  given  her. 

She  sprang  up  and  stretched  out  her  arms 
toward  him. 

"You  my  only  one,  my  all,"  she  whispered, 
folding  her  hands  under  her  chin  and  staring  at 
him. 

His  chest  seemed  quieter.  He  lay  there  in 
peace. 

Weeping  with  happiness,  she  threw  herself 
down  beside  him  and  kissed  his  hands.  And  then, 
as  he  took  no  notice  of  all  that,  a  slow  astonish- 
ment came  over  her.  Also,  she  had  an  insecure 
feeling  that  his  hand  was  not  as  usual. 

Powerless  to  cry  out,  almost  to  breathe,  she 
looked  upon  him. 


184        THE    SONG   OF   DEATH 

She  felt  bis  forehead;  she  groped  for  his  heart. 
All  was  still  and  cold.    Then  she  knew. 

The  bell — the  waiters — the  physician — to  what 
purpose  ?  There  was  no  need  of  help  here.  She 
knelt  down  and  wanted  to  pray,  and  make  up 
for  her  neglect. 

A  vision  arose  before  her:  the  widow's  house 
at  home ;  her  mother ;  the  tile  oven ;  her  old  maid- 
enish sisters  rattling  their  wooden  crocheting 
hooks — and  she  herself  beside  them,  her  blonde 
hair  smoothed  with  water,  a  little  riband  at  her 
breast,  gazing  out  upon  the  frozen  fields,  and 
throttling,  throttling  with  love.  For  he  whom 
fate  had  given  her  could  use  her  love  no  longer. 

From  the  next  room  sounded  the  whispering, 
monotonous,  broken,  assailing  her  ears  in  glowing 
waves : 

"J'en  mourrai — je  f  adore — mon  amour." 

That  was  his  song  of  death.  She  felt  that  it 
was  her  own,  too. 


THE  VICTIM 


THE  VICTIM 

MiiDAME  Xelson^  the  beautiful  American,  had 
come  to  us  from  Paris,  equipped  with  a  phe- 
nomenal voice  and  solid  Italian  technique.  She 
had  immediately  sung  her  way  into  the  hearts  of 
Berlin  music-lovers,  provided  that  you  care  to 
call  a  mixture  of  snobbishness,  sophisticated  im- 
pressionableness  and  goose-like  imitativeness — 
heart.  She  had,  therefore,  been  acquired  by  one 
of  our  most  distinguished  opera  houses  at  a  large 
salary  and  with  long  leaves  of  absence.  I  use 
the  plural  of  opera  house  in  order  that  no  one 
may  try  to  scent  out  the  facts. 

Now  we  had  her,  more  especially  our  world 
of  Lotharios  had  her.  Not  the  younger  sons  of 
high  finance,  who  make  the  boudoirs  unsafe  with 
their  tall  collars  and  short  breeches;  nor  the 
bearers  of  ancient  names  who,  having  hung  up 
their  uniforms  in  the  evening,  assume  monocle 
and  bracelet  and  drag  these  through  second  and 
third-class  drawing-rooms.  No,  she  belonged  to 
those  worthy  men  of  middle  age,  who  have  their 
palaces  in  the  west  end,  whose  wives  one  treats 
with  infinite  respect,  and  to  whose  evenings  one 

187 


188  THE  VICTIM 

gives  a  final  touch  of  elegance  by  singing  two  or 
three  songs  for  nothing. 

Then  she  committed  her  first  folly.  She  went 
travelling  with  an  Italian  tenor.  "For  purposes 
of  art,"  was  the  official  version.  But  the  time 
for  the  trip — the  end  of  August — ^had  been  un- 
fortunately chosen.  And,  as  she  returned  orna- 
mented with  scratches  administered  by  the  tenor's 
pursuing  wife — no  one  believed  her. 

Next  winter  she  ruined  a  counsellor  of  a  lega- 
tion and  magnate's  son  so  thoroughly  that  he 
decamped  to  an  unfrequented  equatorial  region, 
leaving  behind  him  numerous  promissory  notes 
of  questionable  value. 

This  poor  fellow  was  revenged  the  following 
winter  by  a  dark-haired  Roumanian  fiddler,  who 
beat  her  and  forced  her  to  carry  her  jewels  to  a 
pawnshop,  where  they  were  redeemed  at  half 
price  by  their  original  donour  and  used  to  adorn 
the  plump,  firm  body  of  a  stupid  little  ballet 
dancer. 

Of  course  her  social  position  was  now  for- 
feited. But  then  Berlin  forgets  so  rapidly.  She 
became  proper  again  and  returned  to  her  earlier 
inclinations  for  gentlemen  of  middle  life  with 
extensive  palaces  and  extensive  wives.  So  there 
were  quite  a  few  houses — none  of  the  strictest 
tone,  of  course — that  were  very  glad  to  welcome 
the  radiant  blonde  with  her  famous  name  and 


THE   VICTIM  189 

fragrant  and  modest  gowns — from  Paquin  at  ten 
thousand  francs  a  piece. 

At  the  same  time  she  developed  a  remarkable 
business  instinct.  Her  connections  with  the  stock 
exchange  permitted  her  to  speculate  without  the 
slightest  risk.  For  what  gallant  broker  would 
let  a  lovely  woman  lose?  Thus  she  laid  the  foun- 
dation of  a  goodly  fortune,  which  was  made  to 
assume  stately  proportions  by  a  tour  through  the 
United  States,  and  was  given  a  last  touch  of 
solidity  by  a  successful  speculation  in  Dresden 
real  estate. 

Furthermore,  it  would  be  unjust  to  conceal 
the  fact  that  her  most  recent  admirer,  the  wool 
manufacturer  Wormser,  had  a  considerable  share 
in  this  hurtling  rise  of  her  fortunes. 

Wormser  guarded  his  good  repute  carefully. 
He  insisted  that  his  illegitimate  inclinations 
never  lack  the  stamp  of  highest  elegance.  He 
desired  that  they  be  given  the  greatest  possible 
publicity  at  race-meets  and  first  nights.  He 
didn't  care  if  people  spoke  with  a  degree  of  ran- 
cour, if  only  he  was  connected  with  the  temporary 
lady  of  his  heart. 

Now,  to  be  sure,  there  was  a  Mrs.  Wormser. 
She  came  of  a  good  Frankfort  family.  Dowry: 
a  million  and  a  half.  She  was  modern  to  the 
very  tips  of  her  nervous,  restless  fingers. 

This  lady  was  inspired  by  such  lofty  social 


190  TTTK   VICTIM 

ideals  that  she  would  have  considered  an  inele- 
gant liaison  on  her  hnshand's  part,  an  insnlt  not 
only  offered  to  good  taste  in  general,  but  to  her 
own  in  particular.  Such  an  one  she  would  never 
have  forgiven.  On  the  other  hand,  she  approved 
of  IMadame  Nelson  tlioroughly.  She  considered 
her  the  most  costly  and  striking  addition  to  her 
household.  Quite  figuratively,  of  course.  Every- 
thing was  arranged  with  the  utmost  propriety. 
At  great  charity  festivals  the  two  ladies  ex- 
changed a  friendly  glance,  and  they  saw  to  it 
that  their  gowns  were  never  made  after  the  same 
model. 

Then  it  happened  that  the  house  of  Wormser 
was  shaken.  It  wasn't  a  serious  breakdown,  but 
among  the  good  things  that  had  to  be  thrown 
overboard  belonged — at  the  demand  of  the  help- 
ing Frankforters — Madame  Nelson. 

And  so  she  waited,  like  a  virgin,  for  love,  like  a 
man  in  the  weather  bureau,  for  a  given  star.  She 
felt  that  her  star  was  yet  to  rise. 

This  was  the  situation  when,  one  day,  Herr 
von  Karlstadt  had  himself  presented  to  her.  He 
was  a  captain  of  industry;  international  reputa- 
tion; ennobled;  the  not  undistinguished  son  of  a 
great  father.  He  had  not  hitherto  been  found 
in  the  market  of  love,  but  it  was  said  of  him  that 
notable  women  had  concimitted  follies  for  his 
sake. 


*  THE   VICTIM  191 

All  in  all,  he  was  a  man  who  commanded  the 
general  interest  in  quite  a  different  measure  from 
^Wormser. 

But  artistic  successes  had  raised  Madame  Xel- 
son's  name  once  more,  too,  and  when  news  of  the 
accomplished  fact  circulated,  society  found  it 
hard  to  decide  as  to  which  of  the  two  lent  the 
other  a  more  brilliant  light,  or  which  was  the 
more  to  be  envied. 

However  that  was,  history  was  richer  by  a 
famous  pair  of  lovers. 

But,  just  as  there  had  been  a  Mrs.  Wormser, 
so  there  was  a  Mrs.  von  Karlstadt. 

And  it  is  this  lady  of  whom  I  wish  to  speak. 

Mentally  as  well  as  physically  Mara  von  Karl- 
stadt did  not  belong  to  that  class  of  persons 
which  imperatively  commands  the  attention  of 
the  public.  She  was  sensitive  to  the  point  of 
madness,  a  little  sensuous,  something  of  an  en- 
thusiast, coquettish  only  in  so  far  as  good  taste 
demanded  it,  and  hopelessly  in  love  with  her  hus- 
band. She  was  in  love  with  him  to  the  extent 
that  she  regarded  the  conquests  which  occasion- 
ally came  to  him,  spoiled  as  he  was,  as  the  in- 
evitable consequences  of  her  fortunate  choice. 
They  inspired  her  with  a  certain  woeful  anger 
and  also  with  a  degree  of  pride. 

The  daughter  of  a  great  land  owner  in  South 
Germany,  she  had  been  brought  up  in  seclusion. 


192  THE  VICTIM 

and  had  learned  only  very  gradually  how  to  glide 
unconcernedly  through  the  drawing-rooms.  A 
tense  smile  upon  her  lips,  which  many  took  for 
irony,  was  only  a  remnant  of  her  old  diffidence. 
Delicate,  dark  in  colouring,  with  a  fine  cameo- 
like profile,  smooth  hair  and  a  tawny  look  in  her 
near-sighted  eyes — thus  she  glided  about  in  so- 
ciety, and  few  but  friends  of  the  house  took  any 
notice  of  her. 

And  this  woman  who  found  her  most  genuine 
satisfaction  in  the  peacefulness  of  life,  who 
was  satisfied  if  she  could  slip  into  her  carriage 
at  midnight  without  the  annoyance  of  one  search- 
ing glance,  of  one  inquiring  word,  saw  herself 
suddenh^  and  without  suspecting  the  reason,  be- 
come the  centre  of  a  secret  and  almost  insulting 
curiosity.  She  felt  a  whispering  behind  her  in 
society ;  she  saw  from  her  box  the  lenses  of  many 
opera  glasses  pointing  her  way. 

The  conversation  of  her  friends  began  to  teem 
with  hints,  and  into  the  tone  of  the  men  whom 
she  knew  there  crept  a  kind  of  tender  compas- 
sion which  pained  her  even  though  she  knew  not 
how  to  interpret  it. 

For  the  present  no  change  was  to  be  noted  in 
the  demeanour  of  her  husband.  His  club  and  his 
business  had  always  kept  him  away  from  home  a 
good  deal,  and  if  a  few  extra  hours  of  absence 
were  now  added,  it  was  easy  to  account  for  these 


THE  VICTIM  193 

in  harmless  ways,  or  rather,  not  to  account  for 
them  at  all,  since  no  one  made  any  inquiry. 

Then,  however,  anonymous  letters  began  to 
come — thick,  fragrant  ones  with  stamped  coro- 
nets, and  thin  ones  on  ruled  paper  with  the 
smudges  of  soiled  fingers. 

She  burned  the  first  batch;  the  second  she 
handed  to  her  husband. 

The  latter,  who  was  not  far  from  forty,  and 
who  had  trained  himself  to  an  attitude  of  imperi- 
ous brusqueness,  straightened  up,  knotted  his 
bushy  Bismarck  moustache,  and  said : 

"Well,  suppose  it  is  true.  What  have  you  to 
lose?" 

She  did  not  burst  into  tears  of  despair;  she 
did  not  indulge  in  fits  of  rage;  she  didn't  even 
leave  the  room  with  quiet  dignity;  her  soul 
seemed  neither  wounded  nor  broken.  She  was 
not  even  affrighted.  She  only  thought:  "I  have 
forgiven  him  so  much ;  why  not  forgive  him  this, 
too?" 

And  as  she  had  shared  him  before  without 
feeling  herself  degraded,  so  she  would  try  to 
share  him  again. 

But  she  soon  observed  that  this  logic  of  the 
heart  would  prove  wanting  in  this  instance. 

In  former  cases  she  had  concealed  his  weak- 
ness under  a  veil  of  care  and  considerateness. 
The  fear  of  discovery  had  made  a  conscious  but 


194  THE   VICTIM 

silent  accessory  of  her.  When  it  was  all  over  she 
breathed  deep  relief  at  the  thought:  "I  am  the 
only  one  who  even  suspected." 

This  time  all  the  world  seemed  invited  to  wit- 
ness the  spectacle. 

For  now  she  understood  all  that,  in  recent  days 
had  tortured  her  like  an  imexplained  blot,  an 
alien  daub  in  the  face  which  every  one  sees  but 
he  whom  it  disfigures.  Now  she  knew  what  the 
smiling  hints  of  her  friends  and  the  consoling 
desires  of  men  had  meant.  Now  she  recognised 
the  reason  why  she  was  wounded  by  the  attention 
of  all. 

She  was  "the  wife  of  the  man  whom  Madame 
Nelson.  .  ." 

And  so  torturing  a  shame  came  upon  her  as 
though  she  herself  were  the  cause  of  the  disgrace 
with  which  the  world  seemed  to  overwhelm  her. 

This  feeling  had  not  come  upon  her  suddenly. 
At  first  a  stabbing  curiosity  had  awakened  in 
her  a  self-torturing  expectation,  not  without  its 
element  of  morbid  attraction.  Daily  she  asked 
herself:  "What  will  develope  to-day?" 

With  quivering  nerves  and  cramped  heart,  she 
entered  evening  after  evening,  for  the  season  was 
at  its  height,  the  halls  of  strangers  on  her  hus- 
band's arm.' 

And  it  was  always  the  same  thing.  The  same 
glances  that  passed  from  her  to  him  and  from 


THE  VICTIM  195 

him  to  her,  the  same  compassionate  sarcasm  upon 
averted  faces,  the  same  hypocritical  delicacy  in 
conversation,  the  same  sudden  silence  as  soon  as 
she  turned  to  any  group  of  .people  to  listen — the 
same  cruel  pillory  for  her  evening  after  evening, 
night  after  night. 

And  if  all  this  had  not  been,  she  would  have 
felt  it  just  the  same. 

And  in  these  drawing-rooms  there  were  so 
many  women  whose  husbands'  affairs  were  the 
talk  of  the  town.  Even  her  predecessor,  Mrs. 
Wormser,  had  passed  over  the  expensive  immor- 
ality of  her  husband  with  a  self-sufficing  smile 
and  a  condescending  jest,  and  the  world  had 
bowed  down  to  her  respectfuUj^,  as  it  always 
does  when  scenting  a  temperament  that  it  is 
powerless  to  wound. 

Why  had  this  martyrdom  come  to  her,  of  all 
people? 

Thus,  half  against  her  own  will,  she  began  to 
hide,  to  refuse  this  or  that  invitation,  and  to 
spend  the  free  evenings  in  the  nursery,  watching 
over  the  sleep  of  her  boys  and  weaving  dreams 
of  a  new  happiness.  The  illness  of  her  older 
child  gave  her  an  excuse  for  withdrawing  from 
society  altogether  and  her  husband  did  not  re- 
strain her. 

It  had  never  come  to  an  explanation  between 
them,  and  as  he  was  always  considerate,  even 


196  THE  VICTIM 

tender,  and  as  sharp  speeches  were  not  native  to 
her  temper,  the  peace  of  the  home  was  not  dis- 
turbed. 

Soon  it  seemed  to  her,  too,  as  though  the  rude 
inquisitiveness  of  the  world  were  slowly  passing 
away.  Either  one  had  abandoned  the  critical 
condition  of  her  wedded  happiness  for  more 
vivid  topics,  or  else  she  had  become  accustomed 
to  the  state  of  affairs. 

She  took  up  a  more  social  life,  and  the  shame 
which  she  had  felt  in  appearing  publicly  with  her 
husband  gradually  died  out. 

What  did  not  die  out,  however,  was  a  keen 
desire  to  know  the  nature  and  appearance  of  the 
woman  in  whose  hands  lay  her  own  destinJ^ 
How  did  she  administer  the  dear  possession  that 
fate  had  put  in  her  power?  And  when  and  how 
would  she  give  it  back? 

She  threw  aside  the  last  remnant  of  reserve 
and  questioned  friends.  Then,  when  she  was  met 
by  a  smile  of  compassionate  ignorance,  she  asked 
women.  These  were  more  ready  to  report.  But 
she  would  not  and  could  not  believe  what  she  was 
told.  He  had  surely  not  degraded  himself  into 
being  one  of  a  succession  of  moneyed  rakes.  It 
was  clear  to  her  that,  in  order  to  soothe  her  grief, 
people  slandered  the  woman  and  him  with  her. 

In  order  to  watch  her  secretly,  she  veiled  heav- 
ily and  drove  to  the  theatre  where  Madame  Nel- 


THE  VICTIM  197 

son  was  singing.  Shadowlike  she  cowered  in  the 
depths  of  a  box  which  she  had  rented  under  an 
assumed  name  and  followed  with  a  kind  of 
pained  voluptuousness  the  ecstasies  of  love  which 
the  other  woman,  fully  conscious  of  the  victorious 
loveliness  of  her  body,  unfolded  for  the  benefit 
of  the  breathless  crowd. 

With  such  an  abandoned  raising  of  her  radiant 
arms,  she  threw  herself  upon  his  breast;  with  that 
curve  of  her  modelled  limbs,  she  lay  before  his 
knees. 

And  in  her  awakened  a  reverent,  renouncing 
envy  of  a  being  who  had  so  much  to  give,  beside 
whom  she  was  but  a  dim  and  poor  shadow,  weary 
with  motherhood,  corroded  with  grief. 

At  the  same  time  there  appeared  a  California 
mine  owner,  a  multi-millionaire,  with  whom  her 
husband  had  manifold  business  deahngs.  He  in- 
troduced his  daughters  into  society  and  himself 
gave  a  number  of  luxurious  dinners  at  which  he 
tried  to  assemble  guests  of  the  most  exclusive 
character. 

Just  as  they  were  about  to  enter  a  carriage  to 
drive  to  the  "Bristol,"  to  one  of  these  dinners,  a 
message  came  which  forced  Herr  von  Karlstadt 
to  take  an  inmiediate  trip  to  his  factories.  He 
begged  his  wife  to  go  instead,  and  she  did  not 
refuse. 

The  company  was  almost  complete  and  the 


198  THE   VICTIM 

daughter  of  the  mine  owner  was  doing  the 
honours  of  {he  occasion  with  appropriate  grace 
when  the  doors  of  the  reception  room  opened  for 
the  last  time  and  through  the  open  doorway 
floated  rather  than  walked — Madame  Nelson. 

The  petrified  little  group  turned  its  glance  of 
inquisitive  horror  upon  Mrs.  von  Karlstadt,  while 
the  mine  owner's  daughter  adjusted  the  necessary 
introductions  with  a  grand  air. 

Should  she  go  or  not?  'No  one  was  to  be 
found  who  would  offer  her  his  arm.  Her  feet 
were  paralysed.    And  she  remained. 

The  company  sat  down  at  table.  And  since 
fate,  in  such  cases,  never  does  its  work  by  halves, 
it  came  to  pass  that  Madame  Nelson  was  assigned 
to  a  seat  immediately  opposite  her. 

The  people  present  seemed  grateful  to  her 
that  thev  had  not  been  forced  to  witness  a  scene, 
and  overwhelmed  her  with  delicate  signs  of  this 
gratitude.  Slowly  her  self-control  returned  to 
her.  She  dared  to  look  about  her  observantly, 
and,  behold,  Madame  Nelson  appealed  to  her. 

Her  French  was  faultless,  her  manners  equally 
so,  and  when  the  Calif ornian  drew  her  into  the 
conversation,  she  practised  the  delicate  art  of 
modest  considerateness  to  the  extent  of  talking 
past  Mrs.  von  Karlstadt  in  such  a  way  that  those 
who  did  not  know  were  not  enlightened  and 
those  who  knew  felt  their  anxiety  depart. 


THE  VICTIM  199 

In  order  to  thank  her  for  this  alleviation  of  a 
fatally  painful  situation,  Mrs.  von  Karlstadt  oc- 
casionally turned  perceptibly  toward  the  singer. 
For  this  Madame  ^Nelson  was  grateful  in  her 
turn.  Thus  their  glances  began  to  meet  in 
friendly  fashion,  their  voices  to  cross,  the  at- 
mosphere became  less  constrained  from  minute 
to  minute,  and  when  the  meal  was  over  the  as- 
tonished assembly  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  Mrs.  von  Karlstadt  was  ignorant  of  the  true 
state  of  afPairs. 

The  news  of  this  peculiar  meeting  spread  like 
a  conflagration.  Her  women  friends  hastened  to 
congratulate  her  on  her  strength  of  mind;  her 
male  friends  praised  her  loftiness  of  spirit.  She 
went  through  the  degradation  which  she  had  suf- 
fered as  though  it  were  a  triumph.  Only  her 
husband  went  about  for  a  time  with  an  evil  con- 
science and  a  frowning  forehead. 

Months  went  by.  The  quietness  of  summer 
intervened,  but  the  memory  of  that  evening 
rankled  in  her  and  bhnded  her  soul.  Slowly  the 
thought  arose  in  her  which  was  really  grounded 
in  vanity,  but  looked,  in  its  execution,  like  suf- 
fering love — the  thought  that  she  would  legiti- 
mise her  husband's  irregularity  in  the  face  of 
society. 

Hence  when  the  season  began  again  she  wrote 
a  letter  to  Madame  Nelson  in  which  she  invited 


200  THE  VICTIM 

her,  in  a  most  cordial  way,  to  sing  at  an  ap- 
proaching function  in  her  home.  She  proffered 
this  request,  not  only  in  admiration  of  the  singer's 
gifts,  but  also,  as  she  put  it,  "to  render  nugatory 
a  persistent  and  disagreeable  rumour." 

Madame  Nelson,  to  whom  this  chance  of  re- 
pairing her  fair  fame  was  very  welcome,  had  the 
indiscretion  to  assent,  and  even  to  accept  the 
condition  of  entire  secrecy  in  regard  to  the  affair. 

The  chronicler  may  pass  over  the  painful  even- 
ing in  question  with  suitable  delicacy  of  touch. 
Nothing  obvious  or  crass  took  place.  Madame 
Nelson  sang  three  enchanting  songs,  accompa- 
nied by  a  first-rate  pianist.  A  friend  of  the 
house  of  whom  the  hostess  had  requested  this 
favour  took  Madame  Nelson  to  the  buffet.  i\! 
number  of  guileless  individuals  surrounded  that 
lady  with  hopeful  adoration.  An  ecstatic  mood 
prevailed.  The  one  regrettable  feature  of  the 
occasion  was  that  the  host  had  to  withdraw — as 
quietly  as  possible,  of  course — on  account  of  a 
splitting  headache. 

Berlin  society,  which  felt  wounded  in  the  in- 
nermost depth  of  its  ethics,  never  forgave  the 
Karlstadts  for  this  evening.  I  believe  that  in 
certain  circles  the  event  is  still  remembered,  al- 
though years  have  passed. 

Its  immediate  result,  however,  was  a  breach 
between  man  and  wife. 


THE  VICTIM  201 

Mara  went  to  the  Riviera,  where  she  remained 
until  spring. 

An  apparent  reconciliation  was  then  patched 
up,  but  its  validity  was  purely  external. 

Socially,  too,  things  readjusted  themselves,  al- 
though people  continued  to  speak  of  the  Karl- 
stadt  house  with  a  smile  that  asked  for  indul- 
gence. 

Mara  felt  this  acutely,  and  while  her  husband 
appeared  oftener  and  more  openly  with  his  mis- 
tress, she  withdrew  into  the  silence  of  her  inner 
chambers. 

Then  she  took  a  lover. 

Or,  rather,  she  was  taken  by  him. 

A  lonely  evening  ...  A  fire  in  the  chimney 
...  A  friend  who  came  in  by  accident  .  .  The 
same  friend  who  had  taken  care  of  Madame  Nel- 
son for  her  on  that  memorable  evening  .  .  .  The 
fall  of  snow  without  ...  A  burst  of  confidence 
...  A  sob  ...  A  nestling  against  the  caress- 
ing hand  .  .  .  It  was  done  .  .  . 

Months  passed.  She  experienced  not  one  hour 
of  intoxication,  not  one  of  that  inner  absolution 
which  love  brings.  It  was  moral  slackness  and 
weariness  that  made  her  yield  again.  .  , 

Then  the  consequences  appeared. 

Of  course,  the  child  could  not,  must  not,  be 
born.    And  it  was  not  born. 


202  THE  VICTIM 

One  can  imagine  the  horror  of  that  tragic  time : 
the  criminal  flame  of  sleepless  nights,  the  blood- 
charged  atmosphere  of  guilty  despair,  the  moans 
of  agony  that  had  to  be  throttled  behind  closed 
doors. 

What  remained  to  her  was  lasting  invalidism. 

The  way  from  her  bed  to  an  invalid's  chair 
was  long  and  hard. 

Time  passed.  Improvements  came  and  gave 
place  to  lapses  in  her  condition.  Trips  to  water- 
ing-places alternated  with  visits  to  sanatoriums. 

In  those  places  sat  the  pallid,  anaemic  women 
who  had  been  tortured  and  ruined  by  their  own 
or  alien  guilt.  There  they  sat  and  engaged  in 
wretched  flirtations  wit)i  flighty  neurasthenics. 

And  graduallyJJiings  went  from  bad  to  worse. 
The  physicians  shrugged  their  friendly  shoul- 
(ders. 

And  then  it  happened  that  Madame  Nelson 
felt  the  inner  necessity  of  running  away  with  a 
handsome  young  tutor.  She  did  this  less  out  of 
passion  than  to  convince  the  world — after  having 
thoroughly  fleeced  it — of  the  unselfishness  of  her 
feelings.  For  it  was  her  ambition  to  be  counted 
among  the  great  lovers  of  all  time. 

One  evening  von  Karlstadt  entered  the  sick 
chamber  of  his  wife,  sat  down  beside  her  bed 
and  silently  took  her  hand. 


THE  VICTIM  203 

She  was  aware  of  everything,  and  asked  with 
a  gentle  smile  upon  her  white  lips : 

"Be  frank  with  me:  did  you  love  her,  at  least?" 

He  laughed  shrilly.  "What  should  have  made 
me  love  this — business  lady?" 

They  looked  at  each  other  long.  Upon  her 
face  death  had  set  its  seal.  His  hair  was  gray, 
his  self-respect  broken,  his  human  worth  squan- 
dered .    .    . 

And  then,  suddenly,  they  clung  to  each  other, 
and  leaned  their  foreheads  against  each  other, 
and  wept. 


AUTUMN 


AUTUMN 

I. 

It  was  on  a  sunny  afternoon  in  October. 
Human  masses  streamed  through  the  alleys  of 
the  Tiergarten.  With  the  desperate  passion  of 
an  ageing  woman  who  feels  herself  about  to  be 
deserted,  the  giant  city  received  the  last  caresses 
of  summer.  A  dotted  throng  that  was  not  un- 
like the  chaos  of  the  Champs  ^lysees,  filled  the 
broad,  gray  road  that  leads  to  Charlottenburg. 

Berlin,  which  cannot  compete  with  any  other 
great  European  city,  as  far  as  the  luxury  of 
vehicular  traffic  is  concerned,  seemed  to  have  sent 
out  to-day  all  it  possessed  in  that  kind.  The 
weather  was  too  beautiful  for  closed  coupes,  and 
hence  the  comfortable  family  landau  was  most  in 
evidence.  Only  now  and  then  did  an  elegant 
victoria  glide  along,  or  an  aristocratic  four-in- 
hand  demand  the  respectful  yielding  of  the 
crowd. 

A  dog-cart  of  dark  yellow,  drawn  by  a  mag- 
nificent trotter,  attracted  the  attention  of  ex- 
perts.   The  noble  animal,  which  seemed  to  feel 

207 


208  AUTUMN 

the  security  of  the  guiding  hand,  leaned,  snort- 
ing, upon  its  bit.  With  far  out-reaching  hind 
legs,  it  flew  along,  holding  its  neck  moveless,  as 
became  a  scion  of  its  race. 

The  man  who  drove  was  sinewy,  tall,  about 
forty,  with  clear,  gray  eyes,  sharply  cut  profile 
and  a  close-clipped  moustache.  In  his  thin, 
brownish  cheeks  were  several  deep  scars,  and 
between  the  straight,  narrow  brows  could  be  seen 
two  salient  furrows. 

His  attire — an  asphalt-gray,  thick-seamed 
overcoat,  a  coloured  shirt  and  red  gloves — did  not 
deny  the  sportsman.  His  legs,  which  pressed 
against  the  footboard,  were  clad  in  tight,  yellow 
riding  boots. 

Manj^  people  saluted  him.  He  returned  their 
salutations  with  that  careless  courtesy  which  be- 
longs to  those  who  know  themselves  to  have 
transcended  the  judgment  of  men. 

If  one  of  his  acquaintances  happened  to  be 
accompanied  by  a  lady,  he  bowed  deeply  and  re- 
spectfully, but  w  ithout  giving  the  ladies  in  ques- 
tion a  single  glance. 

People  looked  after  him  and  mentioned  his 
name:    Baron  von  Stueckrath. 

Ah,  that  fellow .    .    . 

And  they  looked  around  once  more. 

At  the  square  of  the  Great  Star  he  turned  to 
the  left,  drove  along  the  river,  passed  the  well- 


AUTUMN  209 

known  resort  called  simply  The  Tents,  ancl 
stopped  not  far  from  the  building  of  the  general 
staff  of  the  army  and  drew  up  before  a  large 
distinguished  house  with  a  fenced  front  garden 
and  cast-iron  gate  to  the  driveway. 

He  threw  the  reins  to  the  groom,  who  sat  stat- 
uesquely  behind  him,  and  said:    "Drive  home." 

Jumping  from  the  cart,  he  observed  the  handle 
of  the  scraper  sticking  in  the  top  of  one  of  his 
boots.  He  drew  it  out,  threw  it  on  the  seat,  and 
entered  the  house. 

The  janitor,  an  old  acquaintance,  greeted  him 
with  the  servile  intimacy  of  the  tip-expecting 
tribe. 

On  the  second  floor  he  stopped  and  pulled  the 
bell  whose  glass  knob  glittered  above  a  neat  brasjs 
plate. 

"Ludovika  Kraissl,"  was  engraved  upon  it. 

A  maid,  clad  with  prim  propriety  in  a  white 
apron  and  white  lace  cap,  opened  the  door. 

He  entered  and  handed  her  his  hat. 

"Is  Madame  at  home?" 

"No,  SU-." 

He  looked  at  her  through  half -closed  lids,  and 
observed  how  her  milk-white  little  madonna's 
face  flushed  to  the  roots  of  her  blonde  hair. 

"Where  did  she  go?" 

"Madame  meant  to  go  to  the  dressmaker,"  the 
girl  stuttered,  "and  to  make  some  purchases." 


':f- 


210  AUTUMN 


She  avoided  his  eyes.  She  had  been  in  service 
only  three  months  and  had  not  yet  perfected  her- 
self in  lying* 

He  whistled  a  tune  between  his  set  teeth  and 
entered  the  drawing-room. 

A  penetrating  perfume  streamed  forth. 

"Open  the  window,  Meta." 

She  passed  noiselessly  through  the  room  and 
executed  his  command. 

Frowning,  he  looked  about  him.  The  empty 
pomp  of  the  light  woman  offended  his  taste. 
The  creature  who  lived  here  had  a  gift  for  filling 
every  corner  with  banal  and  tasteless  trivialities. 

When  he  had  turned  over  the  flat  to  her  it  had 
been  a  charming  little  place,  full  of  delicate  tints 
and  the  simple  lines  of  Louis  Seize  furniture.  In 
a  few  years  she  had  made  a  junk  shop  of  it. 

"Would  you  care  for  tea,  sir,  or  anything 
else?"  the  girl  asked. 

"No,  thank  you.  Pull  off  my  boots,  Meta. 
I'll  change  my  dress  and  then  go  out  again." 

Modestlj^  almost  humbly,  she  bowed  before 
him  and  set  his  spurred  foot  gently  on  her  lap. 
Then  she  loosened  the  top  straps.  He  let  his 
glance  rest,  well  pleased,  upon  her  smooth,  silvery; 
blonde  hajr.  ; 

How  would  it  work  if  he  sent  hi^HMstress  pack- 
ing and  installed  this  girl  in  her  place? 

But  he  immediately  abandoned  the  thought. 


AUTUMX  211 

He  had  seen  the  thing  done  by  some  of  his 
friends.  In  a  single  year  the  chastest  and  most 
modest  servant  girl  was  so  thoroughly  corrupted 
that  she  had  to  be  driven  into  the  streets. 

"We  men  seem  to  emit  a  pestilential  air,"  he 
reflected,  "that  corrupts  every  woman." 

"Or  at  least  men  of  my  kind,"  he  added  care- 
fully. 

"Have  you  any  other  wishes,  sir?"  asked  the 
girl,  daintily  wiping  her  hands  on  her  apron. 

"No,  thank  you." 

She  turned  to  the  door. 

"One  thing  more,  Meta.  When  did  Madame 
say  she  would  be  back?" 

Her  face  was  again  mantled  with  blood. 

"She  didn't  say  anything  definite.  I  was  to 
make  her  excuses.  She  intended  to  return  home 
by  evening,  at  all  events." 

He  nodded  and  the  girl  went  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  gently  closing  the  door  behind  her. 

He  continued  to  whistle,  and  looked  up  at  a 
hanging  lamp,  which  defined  itself  against  the 
window  niche  by  means  of  a  wreath  of  gay  arti- 
ficial flowers. 

In  this  hanging  lamp,  which  hung  there  un- 
noticed and  unreachable  from  the  floor,  he  had, 
a  year  ago,  quite  by  accident,  discovered  a  store 
of  love  letters.  His  mistress  had  concealed  them 
there  since  she  evidently  did  not  even  consider 


212  AUTUMN 

the  secret  drawer  of  her  desk  a  sufficiently  safe 
repository. 

He  had  carefully  kept  the  secret  of  the  lamp  to 
himself,  and  had  only  fed  his  grim  humour  from 
time  to  time  by  observing  the  changes  of  her 
heart  by  means  of  added  missives.  In  this  way 
he  had  been  able  to  observe  the  number  of 
his  excellent  friends  with  whom  she  deceived 
him. 

Thus  his  contempt  for  mankind  assumed  mon- 
strous proportions,  but  this  contempt  was  the  one 
emotional  luxury  which  his  egoism  was  still 
capable  of. 

He  grasped  a  chair  and  seemed,  for  a  moment 
about  to  mount  to  the  lamp  to  inspect  her  latest 
history.  But  he  let  his  hand  fall.  After  all,  it 
was  indifferent  with  whom  she  was  unfaithful 
to-day.  .  . 

And  he  was  tired.  A  bad  day's  work  lay  be- 
hind him.  A  three-year-old  full-blooded  horse, 
recently  imported  from  Hull,  had  proven  itself 
abnormally  sensitive  and  had  brought  him  to  the 
verge  of  despair  by  its  fearfulness  and  its  moods. 
He  had  exercised  it  for  hours,  and  had  only  suc- 
ceeded in  making  the  animal  more  nervous  than 
before.  Great  sums  were  at  stake  if  the  fault 
should  provfe  constitutional  and  not  curable. 

He  felt  the  impulse  to  share  his  worries  with 
some  one,  but  he  knew  of  no  one.     From  the 


AUTU3IX  213 

point  of  view  of  Miss  Ludi's  naive  selfishness,  it 
was  simply  his  duty  to  be  successful.  She  didn't 
care  for  the  troublesome  details.  At  his  club, 
again,  each  one  was  warily  guarding  his  own  in- 
terests. Hence  it  was  necessary  there  to  speak 
carefully,  since  an  inadvertent  expression  might 
affect  general  opinion. 

He  almost  felt  impelled  to  call  in  the  maid  and 
speak  to  her  of  his  worries. 

Then  his  own  softness  annoyed  him. 

It  was  his  wont  to  pass  throu^  life  in  lordly 
isolation  and  to  astonish  the  world  by  his  suc- 
cesses.   That  was  all  he  needed. 

Yawning  he  stretched  himself  out  on  the  chaise 
tongue.    Time  dragged. 

Three  horn's  would  pass  until  Ludi's  probable 
return.  He  was  so  accustomed  to  the  woman's 
society  that  he  almost  longed  for  her.  Her  idle 
chatter  helped  him.  Her  little  tricks  refreshed 
him.  But  the  most  important  point  was  this: 
she  was  no  trouble.  He  could  caress  her  or  beat 
her,  call  to  her  and  drive  her  from  him  like  a  little 
dog.  He  could  let  her  feel  the  full  measure  of 
his  contempt,  and  she  would  not  move  a  muscle. 
She  was  used  to  nothing  else. 

He  passed  two  or  three  hours  daily  in  her  com- 
pany, for  time  had  to  be  killed  somehow.  Some- 
times, too,  he  took  her  to  the  circus  or  the  theatre. 
He  had  long  broken  with  the  families  of  his 


214  AUTUMN 

acquaintance  and  could  appear  in  public  with 
light  women. 

And  yet  he  felt  a  sharp  revoilsion  at  the  atmos- 
phere that  surrounded  him.  A  strange  discom- 
fort invaded  his  soul  in  her  presence.  He  didn't 
feel  degraded.  He  knew  her  to  be  a  harlot.  But 
that  was  what  he  wanted.  None  but  such  an  one 
would  permit  herself  to  be  so  treated.  It  was 
rather  a  disguised  discoiu-agement  that  held  him 
captive. 

Was  life  to  pass  thus  unto  the  very  end?  Was 
life  worth  living,  if  it  offered  a  favourite  of  for- 
tune, a  master  of  his  will  and  of  his  actions,  noth- 
ing better  than  this? 

"Surely  I  have  the  spleen,"  he  said  to  him- 
self »  Sprang  up,  and  went  into  the  next  room  to 
change  his  clothes.  He  had  a  wardrobe  in  Ludi's 
dressing  room  in  order  to  be  able  to  go  out  from 
here  in  the  evening  unrestrainedly. 


II. 

It  was  near  four  o'clock. 

The  sun  laughed  through  the  window.  Its 
light  was  deep  purple,  changing  gradually  to 
violet.  Masses  of  leaves,  red  as  rust,  gleamed 
over  from  the  Tiergarten.  The  figure  of  Victory 
upon  the  triumphal  column  towered  toward 
heaven  like  a  mighty  flame. 

He  felt  an  impulse  to  wander  through  the 
alleys  of  the  park  idly  and  aimlessly,  at  most  to 
give  a  coin  to  a  begging  child. 

He  left  the  house  and  went  past  the  Moltke 
monument  and  the  winding  ways  that  lead  to 
the  Charlottenburg  road. 

The  ground  exhaled  the  sweetish  odour  of 
decaying  plants.  Rustling  heaps  of  leaves, 
which  the  breezes  of  noon  had  swept  together, 
flew  apart  under  his  tread.  The  westering  sun 
threw  red  splotches  of  light  on  the  faint  green 
of  the  tree  trunks  that  exuded  their  moisture  in 
long  streaks. 

Here  it  was  lonely.  Only  beyond  the  great 
road,  whose  many-coloured  pageant  passed  by 
him  like  a  kinematograph,  did  he  hear  again  in 

215 


216  AUTUMN 

the  alleys  the  sounds  of  children's  voices,  song 
and  laughter. 

In  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Rousseau  Island 
he  met  a  gentleman  whom  he  knew  and  who  had 
been  a  friend  of  his  j-outh.  Stout  of  form,  his 
round  face  surrounded  by  a  close-clipped  beard, 
he  wandered  along,  leading  two  little  girls  in  red, 
while  a  boy  in  a  blue  sailor  suit  rode  ahead,  her- 
ald-like, on  his  father's  walking-stick. 

The  two  men  bowed  to  each  other  coolly,  but 
without  ill-will.  They  were  simply  estranged. 
The  busy  servant  of  the  state  and  father  of  a 
family  was  scarcely  to  be  found  in  those  circles 
were  the  daily  work  consists  in  riding  and  betting 
and  gambling. 

Stueckrath  sat  down  on  a  bench  and  gazed 
after  the  group.  The  little  red  frocks  gleamed 
through  the  bushes,  and  Papa's  admonishing  and 
restraining  voice  was  to  be  heard  above  the  noise 
of  the  boy  who  made  a  trumpet  of  his  hollow 
hand. 

"Is  that  the  way  happiness  looks?"  he  asked 
himself.  "Can  a  man  of  energy  and  action  find 
satisfaction  in  these  banal  domesticities?" 

And  strangely  enough,  these  fathers  of  fami- 
lies, men  who  serve  the  state  and  society,  who 
occupy  high  offices,  make  important  inventions 
and  write  good  books — these  men  have  red  cheeks 
and  laughing  eyes.    They  do  not  look  as  though 


AUTUMN  217 

the  burden  which  they  carry  squeezes  the  breath 
of  life  out  of  them.  They  get  ahead,  in  spite  of 
the  childish  hands  that  cling  to  their  coats,  in 
spite  of  the  trivialities  with  which  they  pass  their 
hours  of  leisure.      "" 

An  indeterminate  feeling  of  envy  bored  into 
his  soul.  He  fought  it  down  and  went  on,  right 
into  the  throng  that  filled  the  footpaths  of  the 
Tier  gar  ten.  Groups  of  ladies  from  the  west  end 
went  by  him,  in  rustling  gowns  of  black.  He  did 
not  know  them  and  did  not  wish  to  know  them. 

Here,  too,  he  recognized  fewer  of  the  men. 
The  financiers  who  have  made  this  quarter  their 
own  appear  but  rarely  at  the  races. 

Accompanying  carriages  kept  pace  with  the 
promenaders  in  order  to  explain  and  excuse  their 
unusual  exertion.  For  in  this  world  the  contin- 
ued absence  of  one's  carriage  may  well  shake 
one's  credit. 

The  trumpeting  motor-cars  whirred  by  with 
gleaming  brasses.  Of  the  beautiful  women  in 
them,  little  could  be  seen  in  the  swift  gleams. 
It  was  the  haste  of  a  new  age  that  does  not  even 
find  time  to  display  fts  vanity. 

Upon  the  windows  of  the  villas  and  palaces 
opposite  lay  the  iridescent  glow  of  the  evening 
sun.  The  facades  took  on  purple  colours,  and 
the  decaying  masses  of  vines  that  weighed  heavily 
upon  the  fences  seemed  to  glow  and  shine  from 

1 


218  AUTUMN 

within  with  the  very  phosphorescence  of  de- 
cay. 

Flooded  by  this  light,  a  slender,  abnormally 
tall  girl  came  into  Stueckrath's  field  of  vision. 
She  led  by  the  arm  an  aged  lady,  who  hobbled 
with  difficulty  along  the  pebbly  path.  A  closed 
carriage  with  escutcheon  and  coronet  followed 
the  two  slowly. 

He  stopped  short.  An  involuntary  movement 
had  passed  through  his  body,  an  impulse  to  turn 
off  into  one  of  the  side  paths.  But  he  conquered 
himself  at  once,  and  looked  straight  at  the  ap- 
proaching ladies. 

Like  a  mere  line  of  blackness,  thin  of  limb  and 
waist,  attired  with  nun-like  austerity  in  garments 
that  hung  as  if  withering  upon  her,  she  stood 
against  the  background  of  autumnal  splendour. 

Now  she  recognised  him,  too.  A  sudden  red- 
ness that  at  once  gave  way  to  lifeless  pallor 
flashed  across  her  delicate,  stern  face. 

They  looked  straight  into  each  other's  eyes. 

He  bowed  deeply.  She  smiled  with  an  efforr 
at  indifference. 

"And  so  she  is  faded,  too,"  he  thought.  To 
be  sure,  her  face  still  bore  the  stamp  of  a  simple 
and  severe  beauty,  but  time  and  grief  had  dealt 
ungently  with  it.  The  lips  were  pale  and  anaemic, 
two  or  three  folds,  sharp  as  if  made  with  a  knife, 
surrounded  them.     About  the  eyes,  whose  soft 


AUTUMN  21^ 

and  lambent  light  of  other  days  had  turned  into 
a  hard  and  troubled  sharpness,  spread  concentric 
rings,  united  by  a  network  of  veins  and  wrinkles. 

He  stood  still,  lost  in  thought,  and  looked 
after  her. 

She  still  trod  the  earth  like  a  queen,  but  her 
outline  was  detestable. 

Only  hopelessness  bears  and  attires  itself  thus. 

He  calculated.  She  must  be  thirty-six.  Thir- 
teen years  ago  he  had  known  her  and — Gloved  her? 
Perhaps.    .    . 

At  least  he  had  left  her  the  evening  before 
their  formal  betrothal  was  to  take  place  because 
her  father  had  dared  to  remark  upon  his  way  of 
life. 

He  loved  his  personal  liberty  more  than  his 
beautiful  and  wealthy  betrothed  who  clung  to 
him  with  every  fibre  of  her  delicate  and  noble 
soul.  One  word  from  her,  had  it  been  but  a 
word  of  farewell,  would  have  recalled  him.  That 
word  remained  unspoken. 

Thus  her  life's  happiness  had  been  wrecked. 
Perhaps  his,  too.    What  did  it  matter? 

Since  then  he  had  nothing  but  contempt  for 
the  daughters  of  good  families.  Other  women 
were  less  exacting;  they  did  not  attempt  to  cir- 
cumscribe his  freedom. 

He  gazed  after  her  long.  Now  groups  of 
other  pedestrians  intervened;  now  her  form  re- 


.■v:i^: 


220  AUTUMN 


appeared  sharp  and  narrow  against  the  trees. 
From  time  to  time  she  stooped  lovingly  toward 
the  old  lady,  who,  as  is  the  wont  of  aged  people, 
trod  eagerly  and  fearfully. 

This  fragile  heap  of  bones,  with  the  dull  eyes 
and  the  sharp  voice — he  remembered  the  voice 
well:  it  had  had  part  in  his  decision.  This 
strange,  unsympathetic,  suspicious  old  woman, 
he  would  have  had  to  call  "Mother." 

What  madness!    What  hypocrisy! 

And  yet  his  hunger  for  happiness,  which  had 
not  yet  died,  reminded  him  of  all  that  might  have 
been. 

A  sea  of  warm,  tender  and  unselfish  love 
would  have  flooded  him  and  fructified  and  vivi- 
fied the  desert  of  his  soul.  And  instead  of  be- 
coming withered  and  embittered,  she  would  have 
blossomed  at  his  side  more  richly  from  day  to 
day. 

Now  it  was  too  late.  A  long,  thin,  wretched 
little  creature — she  went  her  way  and  was  soon 
lost  in  the  distance. 

But  there  clung  to  his  soul  the  yearning  for  a 
woman — one  who  had  more  of  womanliness  than 
its  name  and  its  body,  more  than  the  harlot  whom 
he  kept  because  h^  was  too  slothful  to  drive  her 
from  him. 

He  sought  the  depths  of  his  memory.  His  life 
had  been  rich  in  gallant  adventures.     Many  a 


AUTUMN  221 

full-blooded  yoiing  woman  had  thrown  herself  at 
him,  and  had  again  vanished  from  his  life  under 
the  compulsion  of  his  growing  coldness. 

He  loved  his  liberty.  Even  an  unlawful  rela- 
tion felt  like  a  fetter  so  soon  as  it  demanded  any 
sacrifice  of  time  or  interests.  Also,  he  did  not 
like  to  give  less  than  He  received.  For,  since  the 
passing  of  his  unscrupulous  youth,  he  had  not 
cared  to  receive  the  gift  of  a  human  destiny 
only  to  throw  it  aside  as  his  whim  demanded. 

And  therefore  his  life  had  grown  quiet  during 
the  last  few  years. 

He  thought  of  one  of  his  last  loves  '.  .  .  the 
very  last   .    .    .   and  smiled. 

The  image  of  a  delicately  plump  brunette  httle 
woman,  with  dreamv  eves  and  dehcious  little 
curls  around  her  ears,  rose  up  before  him.  She 
dwelt  in  his  memorv  as  she  had  seemed  to  him: 
modest,  soulful,  all  ecstatic  yielding  and  charm- 
ing simple-heartedness. 

She  did  not  belong  to  society.  He  had  met 
her  at  a  dinner  given  by  a  financial  magnate. 
She  was  the  wife  of  an  upper  clerk  who  was 
well  respected  in  the  business  world.  With  ador- 
ing curiosity,  she  peeped  into  the  great  strange 
world,  whose  doors  opened  to  her  for  the  first 
time. 

He  took  her  to  the  table,  was  vastly  enter- 
tained by  the  lack  of  sophistication  with  which 


■wK'i--j!sj^,r!^T^?rrs??!!js!?!5S!^r 


222  AUTUMN 

she  received  all  these  new  impressions,  and  smil- 
ingly accepted  the  undisguised  adoration  with 
which  she  regarded  him  in  his  character  of  a  fa- 
mous horseman  and  rake. 

He  flirted  with  her  a  bit  and  that  turned  her 
head  completely.  In  lonely  dreams  her  yearning 
for  elegant  and  phantastic  sin  had  grown  to 
enormity.  She  was  now  so  wholly  and  irresist- 
ibly intoxicated  that  he  received  next  morn- 
ing a  deliciously  scribbled  note  in  which  she 
begged  him  for  a  secret  meeting — somewhere 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Arkona  Place  or 
Weinmeisterstrasse,  regions  as  unknown  to  him 
as  the  North  Cape  or  Yokohama. 

Two  or  three  meetings  followed.  She  ap- 
peared, modest,  anxious  and  in  love,  a  bunch  of 
violets  for  his  button-hole  in  her  hand,  and  some 
surprise  for  her  husband  in  her  pocket. 

Then  the  affair  began  to  bore  him  and  he  re- 
fused an  appointment. 

One  evening,  during  the  last  days  of  Novem- 
ber, she  appeared,  thickly  veiled,  in  his  dwelling, 
and  sank  sobbing  upon  his  breast.  She  could  not 
live  without  seeing  him ;  she  was  half  crazed  with 
longing;  he  was  to  do  with  her  what  he  would. 
He  consoled  her,  warmed  her,  and  kissed  the 
melting  snow  from  her  hair.  But  when  in  his 
joy  at  what  he  considered  the  full  possession  of 
a  jewel  his  tenderness  went  beyond  hers,  her  con- 


AUTUMN  223 

science  smote  her.  She  was  an  honest  woman. 
Horror  and  shame  would  drive  her  into  her 
grave  if  she  went  hence  an  adulteress.  He  must 
have  pity  on  her  and  be  content  with  her  pure 
adoration. 

He  had  the  requisite  pity,  dismissed  her  with 
a  paternal  kiss  upon  her  forehead,  but  at  the 
same  time  ordered  his  servant  to  admit  her  no 
more. 

Then  came  two  or  three  letters.  In  her  agony 
over  the  thought  of  losing  him,  she  was  willing 
to  break  down  the  last  reser\  e.  But  he  did  not 
answer  the  letters. 

At  the  same  time  the  thought  came  to  him  of 
going  up  the  Nile  in  a  dahabiyeh.  He  was  bored 
and  had  a  cold. 

On  the  evening  of  his  departure  he  found  her 
waiting  in  his  rooms. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Take  me  along." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Take  me  along." 

She  said  nothing  else. 

The  necessity  of  comforting  her  was  clear.  A 
thoroughgoing  farewell  was  celebrated,  with  the 
understanding  that  it  was  a  farewell  forever. 
y^The  pact  had  been  kept.  After  his  return 
and  for  two  years  more  she  had  given  no  sign 
of  life. 


224  AUTUMN 

He  now  thought  of  this  woman.  He  felt  a 
poignant  longing  for  the  ripe  sweetness  of  her 
oval  face,  the  veiled  depth  of  her  voice.  He  de- 
sired once  more  to  be  embraced  by  her  firm  arms, 
to  be  kissed  by  her  mad,  hesitating  lips. 

Why  had  he  dropped  her?  How  could  he 
have  abandoned  her  so  rudely? 

The  thought  came  into  his  head  of  looking  her 
up  now,  in  this  very  hour. 

He  had  a  dim  recollection  of  the  whereabouts 
of  her  dwelling.  He  could  soon  ascertain  its 
exact  situation. 

Then  again  the  problems  of  his  racing  stable 
came  into  his  head.  The  thought  of  "Maiden- 
hood," the  newly  purchased  horse,  worried  him. 
He  had  staked  much  upon  one  throw.  If  he 
lost,  it  would  take  time  to  repair  the  damage. 

Suddenly  he  found  himself  in  a  tobacconist's 
shop,  looking  for  hek  name  in  the  directory. 
Friedrich-Wilhelm  St^asse  was  the  address. 
Quite  near,  as  he  had.  surmised. 

He  was  not  at  loss  ^or  an  excuse.  Her  hus- 
band must  still  be  in  his  office  at  this  hour.  He 
would  not  be  asked  for  any  very  strict  account- 
ing for  his  action.  At  worst  there  was  an  ap- 
proaching :ciding  festival,  for  which  he  could  re- 
quest her  cooperation. 

Perhaps  she  had  forgotten  him  and  would  re- 
yenge  herself  for  her  humiliation.    Perhaps  she 


AUTUMN  225 

would  be  insulted  and  not  even  receive  him.  At 
best  he  must  count  upon  coldness,  bitter  truths 
and  that  appearance  of  hatred  which  injured  love 
assumes. 

What  did  it  matter?  She  was  a  woman,  after 
all. 

The  vestibule  of  the  house  was  supported  by 
pillars ;  its  walls  were  ornately  stuccoed ;  the  floor 
was  covered  with  imitation  oriental  rugs.  It  was 
the  rented  luxury  with  which  the  better  middle- 
class  loves  to  surround  itself. 

He  ascended  three  flights  of  stairs. 

An  elderly  servant  in  a  blue  apron  regarded 
the  stranger  suspiciously. 

He  asked  for  her  mistress. 

She  would  see.  Holding  his  card  gingerly,  she 
disappeared. 

Now  he  would  see.    .    . 

Then,  as  he  bent  forward,  listening,  he  heard 
through  the  open  door  a  cry — not  of  horrified 
surprise,  but  of  triumph  and  jubilation,  such  a 
cry  of  sudden  joy  as  only  a  long  and  hopeless 
and  unrestrainable  yearning  can  send  forth. 

He  thought  he  had  heard  wrong,  but  the  smil- 
ing face  of  the  returning  servant  reassured  him. 

He  was  to  be  made  welcome. 


III. 

He  entered.  With  outstretched  hands,  tears  in 
her  eyes,  her  face  a-quiver  with  a  vain  attempt 
at  equanimity — thus  she  came  forward  to  meet 
him. 

"There  you  are  .  .  .  there  you  are  ... 
you ..." 

Overwhehned  and  put  to  shame  by  her  for- 
giveness and  her  happiness,  he  stood  before  her 
in  silence. 

What  could  he  have  said  to  her  that  would  not 
have  sounded  either  coarse  or  trivial? 

And  she  demanded  neither  explanation  nor 
excuse. 

He  was  here — that  was  enough  for  her. 

As  he  let  his  glance  rest  upon  her,  he  con- 
fessed that  his  mental  image  of  her  fell  short  of 
the  present  reality. 

She  had  grown  in  soul  and  stature.  Her  fea- 
tures bore  signs  of  power  and  restraint,  and  of 
a  strong  inner  tension.  Her  eyes  sought  him 
with  a  steady  light;  in  her  bosom  battled  the 
pent-up  joy. 

She  asked  him  to  be  seated. 

226 


AUTUMN  227 


CC-] 


'In  that  corner,"  she  said,  and  led  him  to  a 
tiny  sofa  covered  with  glittering,  light-green  silk, 
above  which  hung  a  v^'ithered  palm-leaf  fan. 

"I  have  sajb  there  so  often,"  she  went  on,  "so 
often,  and  have  thought  of  you,  always — always. 
You'll  drink  tea,  won't  you?" 

He  was  ^bout  to  refuse,  but  she  interrupted 
him. 

"Oh,  but  you  must,  you  must.  You  can't  re- 
fuse! It  has  been  my  dream  all  this  time  to 
drink  tea  with  you  here  just  once — just  onCe. 
To  serve  you  on  this  little  table  and  hand  you 
the  basket  with  cakes !  Do  you  see  this  little  lac- 
quer table,  with  the  lovely  birds  of  inlaid  mother- 
of-pearl?  I  had  that  given  to  me  last  Christmas 
for  the  especial  purpose  of  servinsr  you  tea  on  it. 
For  I  said  to  myself :  *He  is  accustomed  to  the 
highest  elegance.'  And  you  are  here  and  are 
going  to  refuse?  No,  no,  that's  impossible.  I 
couldn't  bear  that." 

And  she  flew  to  the  door  and  called  out  her 
orders  to  the  servant. 

He  regarded  her  in  happy  astonishment.  In 
all  her  movements  there  was  a  rhythm  of  uncon- 
scious loveliness,  such  as  he  had  rarely  seen  in  any 
woman.  With  simple,  unconscious  elegance,  her 
dress  flowed  about  her  taller  figure,  whose  severe 
lines  were  softened  by  the  womanly  curves  of  her 
limbs. 


y^ 


1228  AUTUMN 

And  all  that  belonged  to  him. 

He  could  command  this  radiant  young  body 
and  this  radiant  young  soul.  All  that  was  one 
hunger  to  be  possessed  by  him. 

"Bind  her  to  yourself,"  cried  his  soul,  "and 
build  yourself  a  new  happiness!" 

Then  she  returned.  She  stopped  a  few  paces 
from  him,  folded  her  hands  under  her  chin,  gazed 
at  him  wide-eyed  and  whispered:  "There  he  is! 
There  he  is!" 

He  grew  uncomfortable  under  this  expense  of 
passion. 

"I  should  wager  that  I  sit  here  with  a  foolish 
face,"  he  thought. 

"But  now  I'm  going  to  be  sensible,"  she  went 
on,  sitting  down  on  a  low  stool  that  stood  next 
to  the  sofa.  "And  while  the  tea  is  steeping  you 
must  tell  me  how  things  have  gone  with  you  all 
this  long  time.  For  it  is  a  very  long  time  since 
.    .    .    Ah,  a  long  time.    .    . " 

It  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  a  reproach 
behind  these  words.  He  gave  but  a  dry  answer 
to  her  question,  but  threw  the  more  warmth  into 
his  inquiries  concerning  her  life. 

She  laughed  and  waved  her  hand. 

"Oh,  I!"  she  cried.  "I  have  fared  admirably. 
Why  should  I  not  ?  Life  makes  me  as  happy  as 
though  I  were  a  child.  Oh,  I  can  always  be 
happy.  .  .  That's  characteristic  of  me.    Nearly 


AUTUMN  22^ 

every  day  brings  something  new  and  usually 
something  delightful.  .  .  And  since  I've  been  in 
love  with  you.  .  .  You  mustn't  take  that  for  a 
banal  declaration  of  passion,  dear  friend.  .  . 
Just  imagine  you  are  merely  mj^  confidant,  and 
that  I'm  telling  you  of  my  distant  lover  who 
takes  little  notice  of  a  foolish  woman  like  myself. 
But  then,  that  doesn't  matter  so  long  as  I 
know  that  he  is  alive  and  can  fear  and  pray  for 
him ;  so  long  as  the  same  morning  sun  shines  on 
us  both.  Why,  do  you  know,  it's  a  most  delicious 
feeling,  when  the  morning  is  fair  and  the  sun 
golden  and  one  may  stand  at  the  window  and 
say:  'Thank  God,  it  is  a  beautiful  day  for 
him.'" 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead. 

"It  isn't  possible,"  he  thought.  "Such  things 
don't  exist  in  this  world." 

And  she  went  on,  not  thinking  that  perhaps 
he,  too,  would  want  to  speak. 

"I  don't  know  whether  many  people  have  the 
good  fortune  to  be  as  happy  as  I.  But  I  am, 
thank  God.  And  do  you  know,  the  best  part  of 
it  all  and  the  sunniest,  I  owe  to  you.  For  in- 
stance :  Summer  before  last  we  went  to  Heligo- 
land, last  summer  to  Schwarzburg.  .  .  Do  you 
know  it?  Isn't  it  beautiful?  Well,  for  instance: 
I  wake  up ;  I  open  my  eyes  to  the  dawn.  I  get 
up  softly,  so  as  not  to  disturb  my  husband,  and 


^30  AUTUMN 

go  on  my  bare  feet  to  the  window.  Without,  the 
wooded  mountains  lie  dark  and  peaceful.  There 
is  a  peace  over  it  all  that  draws  one's  tears  ...  it 
is  so  beautiful  .  .  .  and  behind,  on  the  horizon, 
there  shines  a  broad  path  of  gold.  And  the  fir- 
trees  upon  the  highest  peaks  are  sharply  defined 
against  the  gold,  like  little  men  with  many  out- 
stretched arms.  And  already  the  early  piping  of 
a  few  birds  is  heard.  And  I  fold  my  hands  and 
think:  I  wonder  where  he  is  .  .  .  And  if  he  is 
asleep,  has  he  fair  dreams?  Ah,  if  he  were  here 
and  could  see  all  this  loveliness.  And  I  think  of 
him  with  such  impassioned  intensity  that  it  is 
not  hard  to  believe  him  here  and  able  to  see  it  all. 
And  at  last  a  chill  comes  up,  for  it  is  always  cool 
in  the  mountains,  as  you  know.  .  .  And  then 
one  slips  back  into  bed,  and  is  annoyed  to  think 
that  one  must  sleep  four  hours  more  instead  of 
being  up  and  thinking  of  him.  And  when  one 
wakes  up  for  a  second  time,  the  sun  throws  its 
golden  light  into  the  windows,  and  the  breakfast 
table  is  set  on  the  balcony.  And  one's  husband 
has  been  up  quite  a  while,  but  waits  patiently. 
And  his  dear,  peaceful  face  ^  is  seen  through  the 
glass  door.  At  such  moments  one's  heart  ex- 
pands in  gratitude  to  God  who  has  made  life  so 
beautiful  and  one  can  hardly  bear  one's  own  hap- 
piness— and — ^there  is  the  tea." 

The  elderly  maid  c^me  in  with  a  salver,  which 


AUTUMN  231 

she  placed  on  tne  piano,  in  order  to  set  the  little 
table  properly.  A  beautiful  napkin  of  damask 
silk  lay  ready.  The  lady  of  the  house  scolded 
jestingly.  It  would  injure  the  polish  of  the 
piano,  and  what  was  her  guest  to  think  of  such 
shiftlessness. 

The  maid  went  out. 
^     She  took  up  the  tea-kettle,  and  asked  in  a 
voice  full  of  bliss. 

"Strong  or  weak,  dear  master?" 

"Strong,  please." 

"One  or  two  lumps  of  sugar?" 

"Two  lumps,  please." 

She  passed^him  the  cup  with  a  certain  solem- 
nity. 

"So  this  is  the  great  moment,  the  pinnacle  of 
all  happiness  as  I  have  dreamed  of  it!  Now, 
tell  me  yourself:  Am  I  not  to  be  envied?  What- 
ever I  wish  is  fulfilled.  And,  do  you  know,  last 
year  in  Heligoland  I  had  a  curious  experience. 
We  capsised  by  the  dunes  and  I  fell  into  the 
water.  As  I  lost  consciousness,  I  thought  that 
you  were  there  and  were  saving  me.  Later  when 
I  lay  on  the  beach,  I  saw,  of  course,  that  it  had 
been  only  a  stupid  old  fisherman.  But  the  feel- 
ing was  so  wonderful  while  it  lasted  that  I  almost 
felt  like  jumping  into  the  water  again.  Speak- 
ing of  water,  do  you  take  rum  in  your  tea?" 

He  shook  his  head.     Her  chatter,  which  at 


282  AUTUMN 

first  had  enraptured  him,  began  to  fill  him  with 
sadness.  He  did  not  know  how  to  respond.  His 
youthfulness  and  flexibility  of  mind  had  passed 
from  him  long  ago:  he  had  long  lost  any  inner 
cheerfulness. 

And  while  she  continued  to  chat,  his  thoughts 
w^andered,  like  a  horse,  on  their  accustomed  path 
on  the  road  of  his  daily  worries.  He  thought  of 
an  unsatisfactory  jockey,  of  the  nervous  horse. 

What  was  this  woman  to  him,  after  all? 

"By  the  way,"  he  heard  her  say,  "I  wanted  to 
ask  you  whether  'JNIaidenhood*  has  arrived?" 

He  sat  up  sliarply  and  stared  at  her.  Surely 
he  had  heard  wrong. 

"What  do  you  know  about  ^Maidenhood' ?" 

"But,  my  dear  friend,  do  you  suppose  I 
haven't  heard  of  your  beautiful  horse,  by  'Blue 
Devil'  out  of  'Nina'?  Now,  do  you  see?  I  be- 
lieve I  know  the  grandparents,  too.  Anyhow, 
you  are  to  be  congratulated  on  your  purchase. 
The  English  trackmen  are  bursting  with  envy. 
To  judge  by  that,  you  ought  to  have  an  immense 


success." 


"But,  for  heaven's  sake,  how  do  you  know 
aU  this?" 

"Dear  me,  didn't  your  purchase  appear  in  all 
the  sporting  papers?" 

"Do  you  read  those  papers?" 

"Surely.    You  see,  here  is  the  last  number  of 


AUTUMN  233 

he  Spwr,  and  yonder  is  the  bound  copy  of  the 
German  Sporting  News.'^ 

"I  see;  but  to  what  purpose?" 

"Oh,  I'm  a  sporting  lady,  dear  master.  I  look 
upon  the  world  of  horses — is  that  the  right  ex- 
pression?— with  benevolent  interest.  I  hope  that 
isn't  forbidden?" 

"But  you  never  told  me  a  word  about  that  be- 
fore!" 

She  blushed  a  little  and  cast^l^r  eyes  down. 

"Oh,  before,  before.  .  .  That  interest  didn't 
come  until  later." 

He  understood  and  dared  not  understand. 

"Don't  look  at  me  so,"  she  besought  him; 
there's  nothing  very  remarkable  about  it.  I  just 
said  to  myself:  Well,  if  he  doesn't  want  you,  at 
least  you  can  share  his  life  from  afar.  That  isn't 
immodest,  is  it  ?  And  then  the  race  meets  'Were 
the  only  occasions  on  which  I  could  see  you  from 
afar.  And  whenever  you  yourself  rode — oh,  how 
my  heart  beat — fit  to  burst.  And  when  you  won, 
oh,  how  proud  I  was !  I  could  have  cried  out  my 
secret  for  all  the  world  to  hear.  And  my  poor 
husband's  arm  was  always  black  and  blue.  I 
pinched  him  first  in  my  anxiety  and  then  in  my 
joy." 

"So  your  husband  happily  shares  your  enthu- 
siasm?" 

"Oh,  at  first  he  wasn't  very  willing.    But  then. 


wWv' 


.,„..,.  „,^^™j^ 


284  AUTUMN 


he  is  so  good,  so  good.  And  as  I  couldn't  go  to 
the  races  alone,  why  he  jnst  had  to  go  with  me! 
And  in  the  end  he  has  hecome  as  great  an  enthu- 
siast as  I  am.  We  can  sit  together  for  hours  and 
discuss  the  tips.  And  he  just  admires  you  so — 
almost  more  than  I.  Oh,  how  happy  he'd  be  to 
meet  j^ou  here.  You  mustn't  refuse  him  that 
pleasure.  And  now  you're  laughing  at  me. 
Shame  on  vou!" 

"I  give  you  my  word  that  nothing '* 

*'Oh,  but  you  smiled.    I  saw  you  smile." 
"Perhaps.     But  assuredly  with  no  evil  inten- 
tion.   And  now  you'll  permit  me  to  ask  a  serious 
question,  won't  you?" 
"But  surely  !"*^ 

"Do  you  love  your  husband?" 
"Whv,  of  course  I  love  him.  You  don't  know 
him,  or  you  wouldn't  ask.  How  could  I  help  it? 
We're  like  two  children  together.  And  I  don't 
mean  anything  silly.  We're  like  that  in  hours 
of  grief,  too.  Sometimes  when  I  look  at  him  in 
his  sleep — the  kind,  careworn  forehead,  the  silent 
serious  mouth — and  when  I  think  how  faithfully; 
and  carefully  he  guides  me/  how  his  one  dream- 
ing and  waking  thought  is  for  my  happiness — 
why,  then -I  kneel  down  and  kiss  his  hands  till 
he  wakes  up.  Once  he  thought  it  was  our  little 
dog,  and  murmured  'Shoo,  shoo!'  Oh,  how  we 
laughed!    And  if  you  imagine  that  such  a  state 


AUTUMN  235 

of  affairs  can't  be  reconciled  with  my  feeling  for 
yon,  why,  then  you're  quite  wrong.  That  is 
upon  an  entirely  different  plane." 

"And  your  life  is  happy?" 

"Perfectly,  perfectly." 

Radiantly  she  folded  her  hands. 

She  did  not  suspect  her  position  on  the  fearful 
edge  of  an  abyss.  She  had  not  yet  realised  what 
his  coming  meant,  nor  how  defenceless  she  was. 

He  had  but  to  stretch  out  his  arms  and  she 
would  fly  to  him,  ready  to  sacrifice  her  fate  to 
his  mood.  And  this  time  there  would  be  no  re- 
turning to  that  well-ordered  content. 

A  dull  feeling  of  responsibility  arose  in  him 
and  paralysed  his  will.  Here  was  all  that  he 
needed  in  order  to  conquer  a  few  years  of  new 
freshness  and  joy  for  the  arid  d.esert  of  his  life. 
Here  was  the  spring  of  life  for  which  he  was 
athirst.  And  he  had  not  the  courage  to  touch  it 
with  his  lips. 


IV. 

A  SILENCE  ensued  in  which  their  mood  threat- 
ened to  darken  and  grow  turbid. 

Then  he  pulled  himself  together. 

*'You  don't  ask  me  why  I  came,  dear  friend." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  smiled. 

"A  moment's  impulse — or  loneliness.  That's 
all." 

"And  a  bit  of  remorse,  don't  you  think  so?'* 

"Remorse?  For  what?  You  have  nothing 
with  which  to  reproach  j^ourself.  Was  not  our 
agreement  made  to  be  kept?" 

"And  yet  I  couldn't  wholly  avoid  the  feeling 
as  if  my  unbroken  silence  must  have  left  a  sting 
in  your  soul  which  would  embitter  your  memory 
of  me." 

Thoughtfully  she  stirred  her  tea. 

"No,"  she  said  at  last,  "I'm  not  so  foolish. 
The  memory  of  you  is  a  sacred  one.  If  that 
were  not  so,  how  could  I  have  gone  on  living? 
That  time,  to  be  sure,  I  wanted  to  take  my  life. 
I  had  determined  on  that  before  I  came  to  you. 
For  that  one  can  leave  the  man  with  whom.  .  . 
I  never  thought  that  possible.  .  .  But  one  learns. 

236 


AUTUMN  237 

a  good  deal — a  good  deal.  .  .  And  now  I'll  tell 
you  how  it  came  to  pass  that  I  didn't  take  my  life 
that  night.  When  everything  was  over,  and  I 
stood  in  the  street  before  your  house,  I  said  to 
myself:  'Xow  the  river  is  all  that  is  left.'  In 
spite  of  rain  and  storm,  I  took  an  open  cab  and 
drove  out  to  the  Tiergarten.  Wasn't  the  weather 
horrible!  At  the  Great  Star  I  left  the  cab  and 
ran  about  in  the  muddy  ways,  weeping,  weeping. 
I  was  blind  with  tears,  and  lost  my  way.  I  said 
to  myself  that  I  would  die  at  six.  There  were 
still  four  minutes  left.  I  asked  a  policeman  the 
way  to  Bellevue,  for  I  did  remember  that  the 
river  flows  hard  behind  the  castle.  The  police- 
man said:  'There  it  is.  The  hour  is  striking  in 
the  tower  now.'  And  when  I  heard  the  clock 
strike,  the  thought  came  to  me:  'Now  my  hus- 
band is  coming  home,  tired  and  hungry,  and  I'm 
not  there.  If  at  least  he  wouldn't  let  his  dinner 
get  cold.  But  of  course  he  will  wait.  He'd 
rather  starve  than  eat  without  me.  And  he'll  be 
frightened  more  and  more  as  the  hours  pass. 
Then  he'll  run  to  the  police.  And  next  morning 
he'll  be  summoned  by  telegram  to  the  morgue. 
There  he'll  break  down  helplessly  and  hopelessly 
and  I  won't  be  able  to  console  him.'  And  when 
I  saw  that  scene  in  mv  mind,  I  called  out:  'Cab! 
cab!'  But  there  was  no  cab.  So  I  ran  back  to 
the  Great  Star,  and  jumped  into  the  street-car. 


238  AUTUMN 

and  rode  home  and  rushed  into  his  arms  and 
cried  my  fill/' 

"And  had  your  husband  no  questions  to  ask? 
Did  he  entertain  no  suspicion?" 

*'Oh,  no,  he  knows  me.  I  am  taken  that  way 
Sometimes.  If  anything  movea  or  delights  me 
deeply — a  lovely  child  on  the  street — you  see,  I 
haven't  any — or  some  glorious  music,  or  some- 
times only  the  park  in  spring  and  some  white 
statue  in  the  midst  of  the  greene^'y.  Oh,  some- 
times I  seem  to  feel  my  very  soul  melt,  and  then 
he  lays  his  cool,  firm  hand  on  aiy  forehead  and 
I  am  healed." 

"And  were  you  healed  on  that  occasion,  too?'* 

"Yes.  I  was  calmed  at  once.  *Here,'  I  said 
to  myself,  'is  this  dear,  good  man,  to  whom  you 
can  be  kind.  And  as  far  as  the  other  is  con- 
cerned, why  it  was  mere  mad  egoism  to  hope  to 
have  a  share  in  his  life.  For  to  give  love  means, 
after  all,  to  demand  love.  And  what  can  a  poor, 
supersensitive  thing  like  you  mean  to  him?  He 
has  others.  He  need  but  stretch  forth  his  hand, 
and  the  hearts  of  countesses  and  princesses  are 
his!'" 

"Dear  God,"  he  thought,  and  saw  the  image 
of  the  purchasable  harlot,  who  was  supposed  to 
satisfy  his  heart's  needs. 

But  she  chatted  on,  and  bit  by  bit  built  up  for 
him  the  image  of  him  which  she  had  cherished 


AUTUMX  239 

during  these  two  years.  All  the  heroes  of  By- 
ron, Poushkine,  Spielhagen  and  Scott  melted 
into  one  glittering  figure.  There  was  no  splen- 
dour of  earth  with  which  her  generous  imagina- 
tion had  not  dowered  him. 

He  listened  with  a  melancholy  smile,  and 
thought:  "Thank  God,  she  doesn't  know  me. 
If  I  didn't  take  a  bit  of  pleasure  in  my  stable, 
the  contrast  would  be  too  terrible  to  contem- 
plate." 

And  there  was  nothing  forward,  nothing  im- 
modest, in  this  joyous  enthusiasm.  It  was,  in 
fact,  as  if  he  were  a  mere  confidant,  and  she  were 
singing  a  hymn  in  praise  of  her  beloved. 

And  thus  she  spared  him  any  feeling  of 
shame. 

But  what  was  to  happen  now? 

It  went  without  saying  that  this  visit  must 
have  consequences  of  some  sort.  It  was  her 
right  to  demand  that  he  do  not,  for  a  second 
time,  take  her  up  and  then  fling  her  aside  at  the 
convenience  of  a  given  hour. 

Almost  timidly  he  asked  after  her  thoughts  of 
the  future. 

"Let's  not  speak  of  it.  You  won't  come  back, 
anyhow." 

"How  can  you  think.  .  ." 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't  come  back.  And  what  is 
there  here  for  you?    Do  you  want  to  be  adored 


240  AUTUMN 

by  me?  You  spoiled  gentlemen  soon  tire  of  that 
sort  of  thing.  .  .  Or  would  you  like  to  converse 
with  my  husband?  That  wouldn't  amuse  you. 
He's  a  very  silent  man  and  his  reserve  thaws  only 
when  he  is  alone  with  me.  .  .  But  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter. .  .  You  have  been  here.  And  the  memory 
of  this  hour  will  always  be  dear  and  precious  to 
me.  Now,  I  have  something  more  in  which  my 
soul  can  take  pleasure." 

A  muffled  pain  stirred  in  him.  He  felt  im- 
pelled to  throw  himself  at  her  feet  and  bury  his 
head  in  her  lap.  But  he  respected  the  majesty 
of  her  happiness. 

"And  if  I  myself  desired.  .  ." 

That  was  all  he  said ;  all  he  dared  to  say.  The 
sudden  glory  in  her  face  commanded  his  silence. 
Under  the  prudence  which  his  long  experience 
dictated,  his  mood  grew  calmer. 

But  she  had  understood  him. 

In  silent  blessedness,  she  leaned  her  head 
against  the  wall.  Then  she  whispered,  with 
closed  eyes:  "It  is  well  that  you  said  no  more. 
I  might  grow  bold  and  revive  hopes  that  are 
dead.    But  if  you.  .  ." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  A  complete  sur- 
render to  his  will  lay  in  her  glance. 

Then  she  raised  her  head  with  a  listening  ges- 
ture. 

"My  husband,"  she  said,  after  she  had  fought 


AUTUMN  241 

down  a  slight  involuntary  fright,  and  said  it  with 
sincere  joy. 

Three  glowing  fingers  barely  touched  his. 
Then  she  hastened  to  the  door. 

"Guess  who  is  here,"  she  called  out;  "guess!" 

On  the  threshold  appeared  a  sturdy  man  of 
middle  size  and  middle  age.  His  round,  blonde 
beard  came  to  a  grayish  point  beneath  the  chin. 
His  thin  cheeks  were  yellow,  but  with  no  un- 
healthful  hue.  His  quiet,  friendly  eyes  gleamed 
behind  glasses  that  sat  a  trifle  too  far  down  his 
nose,  so  that  in  speaking  his  head  was  slightly 
thrown  back  and  his  lids  drawn. 

With  quiet  astonishment  he  regarded  the  ele- 
gant stranger.  Coming  nearer,  however,  he  rec- 
ognised him  at  once  in  spite  of  the  twilight,  and,, 
a  little  confused  with  pleasure,  stretched  out  his 
hand. 

Upon  his  tired,  peaceful  features,  there  was 
no  sign  of  any  sense  of  strangeness,  any  desire 
for  an  explanation. 

Stueckrath  realized  that  toward  so  simple  a 
nature  craft  would  have  been  out  of  place,  and 
simply  declared  that  he  had  desired  to  renew  an 
acquaintance  which  he  had  always  remembered 
with  much  pleasure. 

"I  don't  want  to  speak  of  myself.  Baron,"  the 
man  replied,  "but  you  probably  scarcely  realise 
what  pleasure  you  are  giving  my  wife." 


242  AUTUMN 

And  he  nodded  down  at  her  who  stood  beside 
him,  apparently  unconcerned  except  for  her 
wifely  joy. 

A  few  friendly  words  were  exchanged.  Fur- 
ther speech  was  really  superfluous,  since  the 
man's  unassailable  innocence  demanded  no  cau- 
tion. But  Stueckrath  was  too  much  pleased  with 
him  to  let  him  feel  his  insignificance  by  an  im- 
mediate departure. 

Hence  he  sat  a  little  longer,  told  of  his  latest 
purchases,  and  w^as  shamed  by  the  satisfaction 
w  ith  which  the  man  rehearsed  the  history  of  his 
stable. 

He  did  not  neglect  the  courtesy  of  asking 
them  both  to  call  on  him,  and  took  his  leave, 
accompanied  by  the  couple  to  the  door.  He 
€ould  not  decide  which  of  the  two  pressed  his 
hand  more  warmly. 

When  in  the  darkness  of  the  lower  hall  he 
looked  upward,  he  saw  two  faces  which  gazed 
after  him  with  genuine  feeling. 

Out  amid  the  common  noises  of  the  street  he 
had  the  feeling  as  though  he  had  returned  from 
some  far  island  of  alien  seas  into  the  wonted  cur- 
rent of  life. 

He  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  what  lay  be- 
fore him. 

Then  he  went  toward  the  Tiergarten. 


AUTUMN  243 

A  red  afterglow  eddied  amid  the  trees.  In  the 
sky  gleamed  a  harmony  of  delicate  blue  tints, 
shading  into  green.  Great  white  clouds  towered 
above,  but  rested  upon  the  redness  of  the  sun- 
set. 

The  human  stream  flooded  as  always  between 
the  flickering,  starry  street-lamps  of  the  Tiergar- 
tenstrasse.  Each  man  and  woman  sought  to 
wrest  a  last  hour  of  radiance  from  the  dying 
day. 

Dreaming,  estranged,  Stueckrath  made  his 
way  through  the  crowd,  and  hurriedly  sought  a 
lonely  footpath  that  disappeared  in  the  darkness 
of  the  foliage. 

Again  for  a  moment  the  thought  seared  him: 
"Take  her  and  rebuild  the  structure  of  your 
life." 

But  when  he  sought  to  hold  the  thought  and 
the  accompanying  emotion,  it  was  gone.  Noth- 
ing remained  but  a  flat  after  taste — ^the  dregs  of 
a  weary  intoxication. 

The  withered  leaves  rustled  beneath  his  tread. 
Beside  the  path  glimmered  the  leaf-flecked  sur- 
face of  a  pool. 

"It  would  be  a  crime,  to  be  sure,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "to  shatter  the  peace  of  those  two  poor 
souls.  But,  after  all,  life  is  made  up  of  such 
crimes.  The  life  of  one  is  the  other's  death; 
one's  happiness  the  other's  wretchedness.       If 


244  AUTUMN 

only  I  could  be  sure  that  some  happiness  would 
result,  that  the  sacrifice  of  their  idyl  would  bring 
some  profit." 

But  he  had  too  often  had  the  discouraging  and 
disappointing  experience  that  he  had  become  in- 
capable of  any  strong  and  enduring  emotion. 
What  had  he  to  offer  that  woman,  who,  in  a 
mixture  of  passion,  and  naive  unmorality  of  soul, 
had  thrown  herself  at  his  breast?  The  shallow 
dregs  of  a  draught,  a  power  to  love  that  had 
been  wasted  in  sensual  trifling — emptiness,  wea- 
riness, a  longing  for  sensation  and  a  longing  for 
repose.  That  was  all  the  gift  he  could  bring 
her. 

And  how  soon  would  he  be  satiated! 

Any  sign  of  remorse  or  of  fear  in  her  would 
suffice  to  make  her  a  burden,  even  a  hated  bur- 
den! 

"Be  her  good  angel,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and 
let  her  be."  He  whistled  and  the  sound  was 
echoed  by  the  trees. 

He  sought  a  bench  on  which  to  sit  down,  and 
lit  a  cigarette.  As  the  match  flared  up,  he  be- 
came conscious  of  the  fact  that  night  had  fallen. 

A  great  quietude  rested  upon  the  dying  forest. 
Like  the  strains  of  a  beautifully  perishing  har- 
mony the  sound  of  the  world's  distant  strife 
floated  into  this  solitude. 

Attentively    Stueckrath    observed    the    little 


AUTUMX  245 

point  of  glowing  fire  in  his  hand,  from  which 
eddied  upward  a  wreath  of  fragrant  smoke. 

"Thank  God,"  he  said,  "that  at  least  remains 
— one's  cigarette." 

Tiien  he  arose  and  wandered  thoughtfully  on- 
ward. 

Without* knowing  how  he  had  come  there,  he 
found  himself  suddenly  in  front  of  his  mistress's 
dwelling. 

Light  shimmered  in  her  windows — the  rasp- 
berry coloured  light  of  red  curtains  which  loose 
women  delight  in. 

"Pah!"  he  said  and  shuddered. 

But,  after  all,  up  there  a  supper  table  was  set 
for  him ;  there  was  laughter  and  society,  warmth 
and  a  pair  of  slippers. 

He  opened  the  gate. 

A  chill  wind  rattled  in  the  twigs  of  the  trees 
and  blew  the  dead  leaves  about  in  conical  whirls. 
They  fluttered  along  like  wandering  shadows, 
only  to  end  in  some  puddle.  .  . 

Autumn.  .  . 


MERRY  FOLK 


MERRY  FOLK 

The  Christmas  tree  bent  heavily  forward.  The 
side  which  was  turned  to  the  wall  had  been  hard 
to  reach,  and  had  hence  not  been  adorned  richly- 
enough  to  keep  the  equilibrium  of  the  tree 
against  the  weighty  twigs  of  the  front. 

Papa  noted  this  and  scolded.  "What  would 
Manmia  say  if  she  saw  that?  You  know,  Bri- 
gitta,  that  Mamma  doesn't  love  carelessness.  If 
the  tree  falls  over,  think  how  ashamed  we  shall 
be." 

Brigitta  flushed  fiery  red.  She  clambered  up 
the  ladder  once  more,  stretched  her  arms  forth  as 
far  as  possible,  and  hung  on  the  other  side  of 
the  tree  all  that  she  could  gather.  There  had 
been  very  little  there.     But  then  one  couldn't 

And  now  the  lights  could  be  lit. 

*'Now  we  will  look  through  the  presents,"  said 
Papa.    "Which  is  Mamma's  plate?" 

Brigitta  showed  it  to  him. 

This  time  he  was  satisfied.  "It's  a  good  thing 
that  you've  put  so  much  marchpane  on  it,"  he 

249 


250  MERRY  FOLK 

said.  "You  know  she  always  loves  to  have  some- 
thing to  give  away."  Then  he  inspected  the 
polished  safety  lock  that  lay  next  to  the  plate 
and  caressed  the  hard  leaves  of  the  potted  palm 
that  shadowed  Mamma's  place  at  the  Christmas 
table. 

"You  have  painted  the  flower  vase  for  her?" 
he  asked. 

Brigitta  nodded. 

"It  is  exclusively  for  roses,"  she  said,  "and  the 
colours  are  burned  in  and  will  stand  any  kind  of 
weather." 

"What  the  boys  have  made  for  Mamma  they 
can  bring  her  themselves.  Have  you  put  down 
the  presents  from  her?" 

Surely  she  had  done  so.  For  Fritz,  there  was 
a  fishing-net  and  a  ten-bladed  knife;  for  Arthur 
a  turning  lathe  with  foot-power,  and  in  addition 
a  tall  toy  ship  with  a  golden-haired  nymph  as 
figurehead. 

"The  mermaid  will  make  an  impression,"  said 
Papa  and  laughed. 

There  was  something  else  which  Brigitta  had 
on  her  conscience.  She  stuck  her  firm  little 
hands  under  her  apron,  which  fell  straight  down 
over  her.  flat  little  chest,  and  tripped  up  and 
down  on  her  heels. 

"I  may  as  well  betray  the  secret,"  she  said. 
"Mamma  has  something  for  you,  too." 


MERRY  FOLK  251 

Papa  was  all  ear.  "What  is  it?"  he  asked,  and 
looked  over  his  place  at  the  table,  where  nothing 
was  noticeable  in  addition  to  Brigitta's  fancy- 
work. 

Brigitta  ran  to  the  piano  and  pulled  forth 
from  under  it  a  paper  wrapped  box,  about  two 
feet  in  height,  which  seemed  singularly  light  for 
its  size. 

When  the  paper  wrappings  had  fallen  aside, 
a  wooden  cage  appeared,  in  which  sat  a  stuffed 
bird  that  glittered  with  all  the  colours  of  the 
rainbow.  His  plumage  looked  as  though  the 
blue  of  the  sky  and  the  gold  of  the  sun  had  been 
caught  in  it. 

"A  roller!"  Papa  cried,  clapping  his  hands, 
and  something  like  joy  twitched  about  his  mouth. 
"And  she  gives  me  this  rare  specimen?" 

"Yes,"  said  Brigitta,  "it  was  found  last  au- 
tumn in  the  throstle  springe.  The  manager  kept 
it  for  me  until  now.  And  because  it  is  so  beau- 
tiful, and,  one  might  really  say,  a  kind  of  bird 
of  paradise,  therefore  Mamma  gives  it  to 
you." 

Papa  stroked  her  blonde  hair  and  again  her 
face  flushed. 

"So;  and  now  we'll  call  the  boys,"  he  said. 

"First  let  me  put  away  my  apron,"  she  cried, 
loosened  the  pin  and  threw  the  ugly  black  thing 
under  the  piano  where  the  cage  had  been  before. 


252  MERRY  FOLK 

Now  she  stood  there  in  her  white  communion 
dress,  with  its  bhie  ribands,  and  made  a  charm- 
ing little  grimace. 

"You  have  done  quite  right,"  said  Papa. 
"Mamma  does  not  like  dark  colours.  Everything 
about  her  is  to  be  bright  and  gay." 

Now  the  boys  were  permitted  to  come  in. 

They  held  their  beautifully  written  Christmas 
poems  carefully  in  their  hands  and  rubbed  their 
sides  timidly  against  the  door-posts. 

"Come,  be  cheerful,"  said  Papa.  "Do  you 
think  your  heads  will  be  torn  off  to-day?" 

And  then  he  took  them  both  into  his  arms  and 
squeezed  them  a  little  so  that  Arthur's  poetry 
was  crushed  right  down  the  middle. 

That  was  a  misfortune,  to  be  sure.  But  Papa 
consoled  the  boy,  saying  that  he  would  be  re- 
sponsible since  it  was  his  fault. 

Brueggemann,  the  long,  lean  private  tutor, 
now  stuck  his  head  in  the  door,  too.  He  had  on 
his  most  solemn  long  coat,  nodded  sadly  like  one 
bidden  to  a  funeral,  and  sniffed  through  his  nose : 
"Yes — yes — yes — yes " 

"What  are  you  sighing  over  so  pitiably,  you 
old  weeping- willow?"  Papa  said,  laughing. 
"There  are  only  merry  folk  here.  Isn't  it  so, 
Brigitta?" 

"Of  course  that  is  so,"  the  girl  said.  "And 
here,  Doctor,  is  your  Christmas  plate." 


MERRY  FOLK  258 

She  led  him  to  his  place  where  a  little  purse  of 
calf's  leather  peeped  modestly  out  from  under 
the  cakes. 

"This  is  your  present  from  Mamma,"  she  con- 
tinued, handing  him  a  long,  dark-covered  book. 
"It  is  'The  Three  Ways  to  Peace,'  which  you  al- 
ways admired  so  much." 

The  learned  gentleman  hid  a  tear  of  emotion 
but  squinted  again  at  the  little  pocketbook.  This 
represented  the  fourth  way  to  peace,  for  he  had 
old  beer  debts. 

The  servants  were  now  ushered  in,  too.  First 
came  Mrs.  Poensgen,  the  housekeeper,  who  car- 
ried in  her  crooked,  scarred  hands  a  little  flower- 
pot with  Alpine  violets. 

"This  is  for  Mamma,"  she  said  to  Brigitta, 
who  took  the  pot  from  her  and  led  her  to  her  own 
place.  There  were  many  good  things,  among 
them  a  brown  knitted  sweater,  such  as  she  had 
long  desired,  for  in  the  kitchen  an  east  wind  was 
wont  to  blow  through  the  cracks. 

Mrs.  Poensgen  saw  the  sweater  as  rapidly  as 
Brueggemann  had  seen  the  purse.  And  when 
Brigitta  said:  "That  is,  of  course,  from  Mam- 
ma," the  old  woman  was  not  in  the  least  sur- 
prised. For  in  her  fifteen  years  of  serv  ice  she 
had  discovered  that  the  best  things  always  came 
from  Mamma. 

The  two  boys,  in  the  meantime,  were  anxious 


254  MERRY  FOLK 

to  ease  their  consciences  and  recite  their  po€iflS?* 
They  stood  around  Papa. 

He  was  busy  with  the  inspectors  of  the  estate, 
and  did  not  notice  them  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
became  aware  of  his  oversight  and  took  the 
sheets  from  their  hands,  laughing  and  regretting 
his  neglect.  Fritz  assumed  the  proper  attitude, 
and  Papa  did  the  same,  but  when  the  latter  saw; 
the  heading  of  the  poem:  "To  his  dear  parents 
at  Christmastide,"  he  changed  his  mind  and 
said:  "Let's  leave  that  till  later  when  we  are 
with  Mamma." 

And  so  the^  boys  could  go  on  to  their  places. 
And  as  their  joy  expressed  itself  at  first  in  a 
happy  silence.  Papa  stepped  up  behind  them  and 
shook  them  and  said:  "Will  you  be  merry,  you 
little  scamps?  What  is  Mamma  to  think  if 
you're  not!" 

That  broke  the  spell  which  had  held  them  here- 
tofore. Fritz  set  his  net,  and  when  Arthur  dis- 
covered a  pinnace  on  his  man-of-war,  the  feel- 
ing of  immeasurable  wealth  broke  out  in  ju- 
bilation. 

But  this  is  the  way  of  the  heart.  Scarcely  had 
they  discovered  their  own  wealth  but  they  turned 
in  desire  to  that  which  was  not  for  them. 

Arthur  had  discovered  the  shiny  patent  loclc 
that  lay  between  Mamma's  plate  and  his  own. 
It  seemed  uncertain  whether  it  was  for  him  or 


MERRY  FOLK  255 

her.  He  felt  pretty  well  assured  that  it  was  not 
for  him ;  on  the  other  hand,  he  couldn't  imagine 
what  use  she  could  put  it  to.  Furthermore,  he 
was  interested  in  it,  since  it  was  made  upon 
a  certain  model.  It  is  not  for  nothing  that 
one  is  an  engineer  with  all  one's  heart  and 
mind. 

Now,  Fritz  tried  to  give  an  expert  opinion, 
too.  He  considered  it  a  combination  Chubb  lock. 
Of  course  that  was  utter  nonsense.  But  then 
Fritz  would  sometimes  talk  at  random. 

However  that  may  be,  this  lock  was  undoubt- 
edly the  finest  thing  of  all.  And  when  one  turned 
the  key  in  it,  it  gave  forth  a  soft,  slow,  echoing 
tone,  as  though  a  harp-playing  spirit  sat  in  its 
steel  body. 

But  Papa  came  and  put  an  end  to  their  de- 
light. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  you  rascals?"  he 
said  in  jesting  reproach.  "Instead  of  giving 
poor  Mamma  something  for  Christmas,  you 
want  to  take  the  little  that  she  has." 

At  that  they  were  mightily  ashamed.  And 
Arthur  Baid  that  of  course  they  had  something 
for  Manmia,  only  they  had  left  it  in  the  hall,  so 
that  they  could  take  it  at  once  when  they  went 
to  her. 

"Get  it  in,"  said  Papa,  "in  order  that  her  place 
may  not  look  so  meager." 


256  MERRY  FOLK 

They  ran  out  and  came  back  with  their  pres- 
ents. 

Fritz  had  carved  a  flower-pot  holder.  It  con- 
sisted of  six  parts,  which  dove-tailed  delicately 
into  each  other.  But  that  was  nothing  compared 
to  Arthur's  ventilation  window,  which  was  woven 
of  horse  hair. 

Papa  was  delighted.  "Now  we  needn't  be 
ashamed  to  be  seen,"  he  said.  Then,  too,  he  ex- 
plained to  them  the  mechanism  of  the  lock,  and 
told  them  that  its  purpose  was  to  guard  dear 
Mamma's  flowers  better.  For  recently  some  of 
her  favourite  roses  had  been  stolen  and  the  only 
wav  to  account  for  it  was  that  some  one  had  a 
pass  key. 

"So,  and  now  we'll  go  to  her  at  last,"  he  con- 
cluded. "We  have  kept  her  waiting  long.  And 
we  will  be  happy  with  her,  for  happiness  is  the 
great  thing,  as  Mamma  says.  .  .  Get  us  the 
key,  Brigitta,  to  the  gate  and  the  chapel." 

And  Brigitta  got  the  key  to  the  gate  and  the 
chapel. 


"■^^M^ 


THEA 


THE  A 

A  Phantasy  over  the  Samovar 

I. 

She  is  a  faery  and  yet  she  is  none.  .  .  . 
But  she  is  my  faery  surely. 

She  has  appeared  to  me  only  in  a  few  mo- 
ments of  life  when  I  least  expected  her. 

And  when  I  desired  to  hold  her,  she  vanished. 

Yet  has  she  often  dwelt  near  me.  I  felt  her 
in  the  hreath  of  winter  winds  sweeping  over 
sunny  fields  of  snow;  I  breathed  her  presence  in 
the  morning  frost  that  clung,  glittering,  to  my 
beard;  I  saw  the  shadow  of  her  gigantic  form 
glide  over  the  smoky  darkness  of  heaven  which 
hung  with  the  quietude  of  hopelessness  over  the 
dull  white  fields;  I  heard  the  whispering  of  her 
voice  in  the  depths  of  the  shining  tea  urn  sur- 
rounded by  a  dancing  wreath  of  spirit  flames. 

But  I  must  tell  the  story  of  those  few  times 
when  she  stood  bodily  before  me — changed  of 
form  and  yet  the  same — my  fate,  my  future  as 
it  should  have  been  and  was  not,  my  fear  and 
my  trust,  my  good  and  my  evil  star. 

259 


«^?> 


IT. 

It  was  many,  many  years  ago  on  a  late  eve- 
ning near  Epiphany. 

Without  whirled  the  snow.  The  flakes  came 
fluttering  to  the  windows  like  endless  swarms 
of  moths.  Silently  they  touched  the  panes  and 
then  glided  straight  down  to  earth  as  though 
they  had  broken  their  wings  in  the  impact. 

The  lamp,  old  and  bad  for  the  eyes,  stood  on 
the  table  with  its  polished  brass  foot  and  its 
raveled  green  cloth  shade*  Tll0  oil  in  the  tank 
gurgled  dutifully.  Black  fragments  gathered 
on  the  wick,  which  looked  like  a  stake  over  which 
a  few  last  flames  keep  watch. 

Yonder  in  the  shabby  upholstered  chair  my 
mother  had  fallen  into  a  doze.  Her  knitting 
had  dropped  from  her  hands  and  lay  on  the 
flower- patterned  apron.  The  wool-thread  cut  a 
deep  furrow  in  the  skin  of  her  rough  forefinger. 
One  of  the  needles  swung  behind  her  ear. 

The  samovar  with  its  bellied  body  and  its  shin- 
ing chimney  stood  on  a  side  table.  From  time 
to  time  a  small,  pale-blue  cloud  of  steam  whirled 

260 


_r   -^/"^if  1    '^ 


THEA  261 

upward,  and  a  gentle  odour  of  burning  charcoal 
tickled  my  nostrils. 

Before  me  on  the  table  lay  open  Sallust's 
"Catilinarian  Conspiracy!"  But  what  did  I  care 
for  Sallust?  Yonder  on  the  book  shelf,  laugh- 
ing and  alluring  in  its  gorgeous  cover  stood  the 
first  novel  that  I  ever  read — "The  Adventures 
of  Baron  Muenchausen !" 

Ten  pages  more  to  construe.  Then  I  was  free. 
I  buried  my  hands  deep  into  my  breeches 
pockets,  for  I  was  cold.    Only  ten  pages  more. 

Yearningly  I  stared  at  my  friend. 

And  behold,  the  bookbinder's  crude  ornamen- 
tation— ungraceful  arabesques  of  vine  leaves 
which  wreathe  about  broken  columns,  a  rising 
sun  caught  in  a  spider's  web  of  rays — ^all  that 
configuration  begins  to  spread  and  distend  until 
it  fills  the  room.  The  vine  leaves  tremble  in  a 
morning  wind;  a  soft  blowing  shakes  the  col- 
imms,  and  higher  and  higher  mounts  the  sun. 
Like  a  dance  of  flickering  torches  his  rays  shoot 
to  and  fro,  his  glistening  arms  are  outstretched 
as  though  they  would  grasp  the  world  and  pull 
it  to  the  burning  bosom  of  the  sun.  And  a  great 
roaring  arises  in  the  air,  muffled  and  deep  as  dis- 
tant organ  strains.  It  rises  to  the  blare  of 
trumpets,  it  quivers  with  the  clash  of  cymbals. 

Then  the  body  of  the  sun  bursts  open.  A 
bluish,  phosphorescent  flame  hisses  forth.    Upon 


262  THEA 

this  flame  stands  erect  in  fluttering  chiton  a 
woman,  fair  and  golden  haired,  swan's  wings  at 
her  shoulders,  a  harp  held  in  her  hand. 

She  sees  me  and  her  face  is  full  of  laughter. 
Her  laughter  sounds  simple,  childlike,  arch.  And 
surely,  it  is  a  child's  mouth  from  which  it  issues. 
The  innocent  blue  eyes  look  at  me  in  mad  chal- 
lenge. The  firm  cheeks  glow  with  the  delight  of 
life.  Heavens!  What  is  this  child's  head  do- 
ing on  that  body  ?  She  throws  the  harp  upon  the 
clouds,  sits  down  on  the  strings,  scratches  her 
little  nose  swiftly  with  her  left  wing  and  calls 
out  to  me:    "Come,  slide  with  me!" 

I  stare  at  her  open-mouthed.  Then  I  gather 
all  my  courage  and  stammer:  "Who  are  you?'* 

"My  name  is  Thea,"  she  giggles. 

"But  «;Ao  are  you?"  I  ask  again. 

"Who?  Nonsense.  Come,  pull  me!  But  no; 
you  can't  fly.  I'll  pull  you.  That  will  go 
quicker." 

And  she  arises.  Heavens!  What  a  form! 
Magnificently  the  hips  curve  over  the  fallen  gir- 
dle; in  how  noble  a  line  are  throat  and  bosom 
married.     No  sculptor  can  achieve  the  like. 

With  her  slender  fingers  she  grasps  the  blue, 
embroidered  riband  that  is  attached  to  the  neck 
of  the  harp.  She  grasps  it  with  the  gesture  of 
one  who  is  about  to  pull  a  sleigh. 

"Come,"  she  cries  again. 


THEA  263 

I  dare  not  understand  her.  Awkwardly  I 
crouch  on  the  strings. 

"I  might  break  them,"  I  venture. 

"You  little  shaver,"  she  laughs.  "Do  you 
know  how  light  you  are?    And  now,  hold  fast!" 

I  have  scarcely  time  to  grasp  the  golden  frame 
with  both  hands.  I  hear  a  mighty  rustling  in 
front  of  me.  The  mighty  wings  unfold.  My 
sleigh  floats  and  billows  in  the  air.  Forward  and 
upward  goes  the  roaring  flight. 

Far,  far  beneath  me  lies  the  paternal  hut. 
Scarcely  does  its  light  penetrate  to  my  height. 
Gusts  of  snow  whirl  about  my  forehead.  Next 
moment  the  light  is  wholly  lost.  Dawn  breaks 
through  the  night.  A  warm  wind  meets  us  and 
blows  upon  the  strings  so  that  they  tremble 
gently  and  lament  like  a  sleeping  child  whose 
soul  is  troubled  by  a  dream  of  loneliness. 

"Look  down!"  cried  my  faery,  turning  her 
laughing  little  head  toward  me. 

Bathed  in  the  glow  of  spring  I  see  an  endless 
carpet  of  woods  and  hills,  fields  and  lakes  spread 
out  below  me.  The  landscape  gleams  with  a 
greenish  silveriness.  My  glance  can  scarcely  en- 
dure the  richness  of  the  miracle. 

"But  it  has  become  spring,"  I  say  trembling. 

'Would  you  like  to  go  down?"  she  asks. 

'Yes,  yes." 

At  once  we  glide  downward. 


264  ^       THEA 

"Guess  what  that  is!"  she  says. 

An  old,  half-ruined  castle  rears  its  granite 
walls  before  me.  ...  A  thousand  year  old 
ivy  wreathes  about  its  gables.  .  .  .  Black 
and  white  swallows  dart  about  the  roofs.  .  .  . 
All  about  arises  a  thicket  of  hawthorn  in 
full  bloom.  .  .  .  Wild  roses  emerge  from 
the  darkness,  innocently  agleam  like  children's 
eyes.  A  sleepy  tree  bends  its  boughs  above 
them. 

There  is  life  at  the  edge  of  the  ancient  terrace 
where  broad-leaved  clover  grows  in  the  broken 
urns.  A  girlish  form,  slender  and  lithe,  swing- 
ing a  great,  old-fashioned  straw  hat,  having  a 
shawl  wound  crosswise  over  throat  and  waist, 
has  stepped  forth  from  the  decaying  old  gate. 
She  carries  a  little  white  bundle  under  her  arm, 
and  looks  tentatively  to  the  right  and  to  the  left 
as  one  who  is  about  to  go  on  a  journey. 

"Look  at  her,"  says  my  friend. 

The  scales  fall  from  my  eyes. 

"That  is  Lisbeth,"  I  cried  out  in  delight, 
"who  is  going  to  the  mayor's  farm." 

Scarcely  have  I  mentioned  that  farm  but  a 
fragrance  of  roasting  meat  rises  up  to  me. 
Clouds  of  smoke  roll  toward  me,  dim  flames 
quiver  up  from  it.  There  is  a  sound  of  roast- 
ing and  frying  and  the  seething  fat  spurts  high. 
iNo  wonder;  there's  going  to  be  a  wedding. 


THEA  265 


tt^ 


*Would  you  like  to  see  the  executioner's 
sword?"  my  friend  asks. 

A  mysterious  shudder  runs  down  my  limbs. 

"I'd  like  to  well  enough,"  I  say  fearfully. 

A  rustle,  a  soft  metallic  rattle — and  we  are  in 
a  small,  bare  chamber.  .  .  .  Now  it  is  night 
again  and  the  moonlight  dances  on  the  rough, 
board  walls. 

"Look  there,"  whispers  my  friend  and  points 
to  a  plump  old  chest. 

Her  laughing  face  has  grown  severe  and 
solemn.  Her  body  seems  to  have  grown* 
Noble  and  lordly  as  a  judge  she  stands  before 
me. 

I  stretch  my  neck;  I  peer  at  the  chest. 

There  it  lies,  gleaming  and  silent,  the  old 
sword.  A  beam  of  moonlight  glides  along  the 
old  blade,  drawing  a  long,  straight  line.  But 
what  do  those  dark  spots  mean  which  have  eaten 
hollows  into  the  metal? 

"That  is  blood,"  says  my  friend  and  crosses 
her  arms  upon  her  breast. 

I  shiver  but  my  eyes  seem  to  have  grown  fast 
to  the  terrible  image. 

"Come,"  says  Thea. 

"I  can't." 

"Do  you  want  it?"  A 

"What?    The  swordr 

She  nods. 


-,...^.p 


266  THEA 


"But  may  you  give  it  away?    Does  it  belong 
to  you?" 

"I  may  do  anything.    Everything  belongs  to 


me. 


A  horror  grips  me  with  its  iron  fist.  "Give 
it  to  me!"  I  crj^  shuddering. 

The  iron  lightening  gleams  up  and  it  lies  cold 
and  moist  in  my  arms.  It  seems  to  me  as  though 
the  blood  upon  it  began  to  fllow  afresh. 

My  arms  feel  dead,  the  sword  falls  from  them 
and  sinks  upon  the  strings.  These  begin  to 
moan  and  sing.  Their  sounds  are  almost  like 
cries  of  pain. 

"Take  care,"  cries  my  friend.  "The  sword 
may  rend  the  strings;  it  is  heavier  than  you." 

We  fly  out  into  the  moonlit  night.  But  our 
flight  is  slower  than  before.  My  friend  breathes 
hard  and  the  harp  swings  to  and  fro  like  a  paper 
kite  in  danger  of  fluttering  to  earth. 

But  I  pay  no  attention  to  all  that.  Some- 
thing very  amusing  captures  my  senses. 

Something  has  become  alive  in  the  moon 
which  floats,  a  golden  disc,  amid  the  clouds. 
Something  black  and  cleft  twitches  to  and  fro 
on  her  nether  side.  I  look  more  sharply  and 
discover,  a  pair  of  old  riding-boots  in  which  stick 
two  long,  lean  legs.  The  leather  on  the  inner 
side  of  the  boots  is  old  and  worn  and  glimmers 
with  a  dull  discoloured  light. 


'r*»P: 


THE  A  267 

"Since  when  does  the  moon  march  on  legs 
through  the  world?"  I  ask  myself  and  begin  to 
laugh.  And  suddenly  I  see  something  black  on 
the  upper  side  of  the  moon — something  that 
wags  funnily  up  and  down.  I  strain  my  eyes 
and  recognise  my  old  friend  Muenchausen's 
phantastic  beard  and  moustache.  He  has 
grasped  the  edges  of  the  moon's  disc  with  his 
long  lean  fingers  and  laughs,  laughs. 

"I  want  to  go  there,"  I  call  to  my  friend. 

She  turns  around.  Her  childlike  face  has 
now  become  grave  and  madonna  like.  She 
seems  to  have  aged  by  years.  Her  words  echo 
in  my  ear  like  the  sounds  of  broken  chimes. 

"He  who  carries  the  sword  cannot  mount  to 
the  moon." 

My  boyish  stijbbornness  revolts.  "But  I  want 
to  get  to  my  friend  Muenchausen." 

"He  who  carries  the  sword  has  no  friend." 

I  jump  up  and  tug  at  the  guiding  riband. 
The  harp  capsises.  ...  I  fall  into  empti- 
ness .  .  .  the  sword  above  me  ...  it 
penetrates  my  body  ...  I  fall  ...  I 
fall.     ... 

"Yes,  yes,"  says  my  mother,  "why  do  you  call 
so  fearfully?    I  am  awake." 

Calmly  she  took  the  knitting-needle  from  be- 
hind her  ear,  stuck  it  into  the  wool  and  wrapped 
the  unfinished  stocking  about  it. 


;,  I. 


III. 

Six  years  passed.  Then  Thea  met  me  again. 
She  had  been  gracious  enough  to  leave  her  home 
in  the  island  valley  of  Avilion,  to  play  the  sou- 
brette  parts  in  the  theatre  of  the  university  town 
in  which  I  was  fencing  and  drinking  for  the  im- 
provement of  my  mind. 

Upon  her  little  red  shoes  she  tripped  across 
the  stage.  She  let  her  abbreviated  skirts  wave 
in  the  boldest  curves.  She  wore  black  silk  stock- 
ings which  flowed  about  her  delicate  ankles  in 
ravishing  lines  and  disappeared  all  too  soon,  just 
above  the  knee,  under  the  hem  of  her  skirt.  She 
plaited  herself  two  thick  braids  of  hair  the  blue 
ribands  of  which  she  loved  to  chew  when  the 
modesty  that  belonged  to  her  part  overwhelmed 
her.  She  sucked  her  thumb,  she  stuck  out  her 
tongue,  she  squeaked  and  shrieked  and  turned  up 
her  little  nose.  And,  oh,  how  she  laughed.  It 
was  that  sweet,  sophisticated,  vicious  soubrette 
laughter  which  begins  with  the  musical  scale  and 
ends  in  a  long  coo. 

Show  jne  the  man  among  us  whom  she  cannot 
madden  into  love  with  all  the  traditional  tricks 
of  her  trade.    Show  me  the  student  who  did  not 

268 


THEA  269 

keep  glowing  odes  deep-buried  in  his  lecture 
notes — deep-buried  as  the  gigantic  grief  of  some 
heroic  soul.     ... 

And  one  afternoon  she  appeared  at  the  skat- 
ing rink.  She  wore  a  gleaming  plush  jacket 
trimmed  with  sealskin,  and  a  fur  cap  which  sat 
jauntily  over  her  left  ear.  tThe  hoar  frost  clung 
like  diamond  dust  to  the  re'ddish  Hair  that  framed 
her  cheeks,  and  her  pink  little  nose  sniffed  up  the 
cold  ail*. 

After  she  had  made  a  scene  with  the  attendant 
who  helped  her  on  with  her  shoes,  during  which 
such  expressions  as  "idiot,"  had  escaped  her 
sweet  lips,  she  began  to  skate.  A  child,  just 
learning  to  walk,  could  have  done  better. 

We  foolish  boys  stood  about  and  stared  at  her. 

The  desire  to  help  her  waxed  in  us  to  the  in- 
tensity of  madness.  But  when  pouting  she 
stretched  out  her  helpless  arms  at  us,  we  recoiled 
as  before  an  evil  spirit.  'Not  one  of  us  found 
the  courage  simply  to  accept  the  superhuman 
bliss  for  which  he  had  been  hungering  by  day 
and  night  for  months. 

Then  suddenly — at  an  awful  curve — she 
caught  her  foot,  stimabled,  wavered  first  forward 
and  then  backward  and  finally  fell  into  the  arms 
of  the  most  diffident  and  impassioned  of  us  alL 

And  that  was  I. 

Yes,  that  was  I. 


■ff'^iW^'p^f^v^tX^^C'Cr'^fm^'' 


270  THE  A 

To  this  day  my  fists  are  clenched  with  rage  at 
the  thought  that  it  might  have  been  anojfeher. 

Among  those  who  remained  behii>d"^as  I  led 
her  away  in  triumph  there  was  not  oii^jwho  could 
not  have  slain  me  with  a  calm  smile. 

Under  the  impact  of  the  words^^^"^ch  she 
wasted  upon  my  unworthy  self,  I  castniQ^^  my 
eyes,  smiling  and  blushing.  Then  I  taught  her 
how  to  set  her  feet  and  showed  off  my  boldest 
manoeuvres.  I  also  told  her  that  I  was  a  stu- 
dent in  my  second  semester  and  that  it  was  my 
ambition  to  be  a  poet. 

*'Isn't  that  sweet?"  she  exclaimed.  "I  suppose 
you  write  poetry  already?" 

I  certainly  did.  I  even  had  a  play  in  hand 
which  treated  of  the  fate  of  the  troubadour  Ber- 
nard   de    Ventadours    in    rhymeless,    irregular 


verse. 


Is  there  a  part  for  me  in  it?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  I  answered,  "but  it  doesn't  matter.  I'll 
put  one  in." 

"Oh,  how  sweet  that  is  of  you!"  she  cried. 
"And  do  you  know?  You  must  read  me  the 
play.  I  can  help  you  with  my  practical  knowl- 
edge of  the  stage." 

A  wave  of  bliss  under  which  I  almost  suffo- 
cated, poured  itself  out  over  me. 

"I  have  also  written  poems — to  you!"  I  stam- 
mered.   The  wave  carried  me  away. 


THEA  ^"271 

"Think  of  that,"  she  said  quite  kindly  instead 
of  boxing  my  ears.  "You  must  send  them  to 
me."  ^ 

"Surely."     ... 

And  then  I  escorted  her  to  the  door  while  my 
friends  followed  us  at  a  seemly  distance  like  a 
pack  of  wolves. 

The  first  half  of  the  night  I  passed  ogling  be- 
neath her  window;  the  second  half  at  my  table, 
for  I  wanted  to  enrich  the  packet  to  be  sent  her 
by  some  further  lyric  pearls.  At  the  pee]^  of 
dawn  I  pushed  the  envelope,  tight  as  a  drum 
with  its  contents,  into  the  pillar  box  and  went 
to  cool  my  burning  head  on  the  ramparts. 

On  that  very  afternoon  came  a  violet-tinted 
little  letter  which  had  an  exceedingly  heady 
fragrance  and  bore  instead  of  a  seal  a  golden 
lyre  transfixed  by  a  torch.  It  contained  the  fol- 
lowing lines: 

"Dear  Poet: 

"Your  verses  aren't  half  bad;  only  too  fiery. 
I'm  really  in  a  hurry  to  hear  your  play.  My  old 
chaperone  is  going  out  this  evening.  I  will  be 
at  home  alone  and  will,  therefore,  be  bored. 
So  come  to  tea  at  seven.  But  you  must  give  me 
your  word  of  honour  that  you  do  not  give  away 
this  secret.  Otherwise  I  won't  care  for  you 
the  least  bit. 

"Your  Thea." 


272  THEA 

Thus  did  she  write,  I  swear  it — she,  my  faery, 
my  Muse,  my  Egeria,  she  to  whom  I  desired  to 
look  up  in  adoration  to  the  last  drawing  of  my 
breath. 

Swiftly  I  revised  and  corrected  and  recited 
several  scenes  of  my  play.  I  struck  out  half  a 
dozen  superfluous  characters  and  added  a  dozen 
others. 

At  half  past  six  I  set  out  on  my  way.  A  thick, 
icy  fog  lay  in  the  air.  Each  person  that  I  met 
was  covered  bj^  a  cloud  of  icy  breath. 

I  stopped  in  front  of  a  florist's  shop. 

All  the  treasures  of  May  lay  exposed  there 
on  little  terraces  of  black  velvet.  There  were 
whole  beds  of  violets  and  bushes  of  snow-drops. 
There  was  a  great  bunch  of  long-stemmed  roses, 
carelessly  held  together  by  a  riband  of  violet 
silk. 

I  sighed  deeply.    I  knew  why  I  sighed. 

And  then  I  counted  my  available  capital: 
Eight  marks  and  seventy  pfennigs.  Seven  beer 
checks  I  have  in  addition.  But  these,  alas,  are 
good  only  at  my  inn — for  fifteen  pfennigs  worth 
of  beer  a  piece. 

At  last  I  take  courage  and  step  into  the  shop. 

*'What  is  the  price  of  that  buncbof  roses?"  I 
whisper.  I  dare  not  speak  aloud,  partly  by  rea- 
son of  the  great  secret  and  partly  through  diffi- 
dence. 


THEA  273 

"Ten  marks,"  says  the  fat  old  saleswoman. 
She  lets  the  palm  leaves  that  lie  on  her  lap  slip 
easily  into  an  earthen  vessel  and  proceeds  to  the 
window  to  fetch  the  roses. 

I  am  pale  with  fright.  My  first  thought  is: 
Run  to  the  inn  and  try  to  exchange  your  checks 
for  cash.  You  can't  borrow  anything  two  days 
before  the  first  of  the  month. 

Suddenly  I  hear  the  booming  of  the  tower 
clock. 

"Can't  I  get  it  a  little  cheaper?"  I  ask  half- 
throttled. 

"Well,  did  you  ever?"  she  says,  obviously 
hurt.  "There  are  ten  roses  in  the  bunch;  they 
cost  a  mark  a  piece  at  this  time.  We  throw  in 
the  riband." 

I  am  disconsolate  and  am  about  to  leave 
the  shop.  But  the  old  saleswoman  who 
knows  her  customers  and  has  perceived  the 
tale  of  love  lurking  under  my  whispering 
and  my  hesitation,  feels  a  human  sjrm- 
pathy. 

"You  might  have  a  few  roses  taken  out,"  she 
says.  "How  much  would  you  care  to  expend, 
young  man?" 

"Eight  marks  and  seventy  pfennigs,"  I  am 
about  to  answer  in  my  folly.  Fortunately  it  oc- 
curs to  me  that  I  must  keep  out  a  tip  for  her 
maid.     The  ladies  of  the  theatre  always  have 


274  THE  A 

maids.  And  I  might  leave  late.  "Seven  marks," 
I  answer  therefore. 

With  quiet  dignity  the  woman  extracts  jour 
roses  from  my  bunch  and  I  am  too  humble  and 
intimidated  to  protest. 

But  mv  bunch  is  still  rich  and  full  and  I  am 
consoled  to  think  that  a  wooing  prince  cannot  do 
better. 

Five  minutes  past  seven  I  stand  before  her 
door. 

Need  I  say  that  my  breath  gives  out,  that  I 
dare  not  knock,  that  the  flowers  nearly  fall  from 
my  nerveless  hand?  All  that  is  a  matter  of 
course  to  anyone  who  has  ever,  in  his  youth,  had 
dealings  with  faeries  of  Thea's  stamp. 

It  is  a  problem  to  me  to  this  day  how  I  finally 
did  get  into  her  room.  But  already  I  see  her 
hastening  toward  me  with  laughter  and  bury- 
ing her  face  in  the  roses. 

"O  you  spendthrift!"  she  cries  and  tears  the 
flowers  from  my  hand  in  order  to  pirouette  with 
them  before  the  mirror.  And  then  she  assumes 
a  solemn  expression  and  takes  me  by  a  coat  but- 
ton, draws  me  nearer  and  says:  "So,  and  now 
you  may  kiss  me  as  a  reward." 

I  hear  and  cannot  grasp  my  bliss.  My  heart 
seems  to  struggle  out  at  my  throat,  but  hard  be- 
fore me  bloom  her  lips.  I  am  brave  and  kiss 
her. 


THEA  275 


"Oh,"  she  says,  "your  beard  is  full  of  snow." 

"My  beard!  Hear  it,  ye  gods !  Seriously  and 
with  dignity  she  speaks  of  my  beard." 

A  turbid  sense  of  being  a  kind  of  Don  Juan 
or  Lovelace  arises  in  me.  My  self -consciousness 
assumes  heroic  dimensions,  and  I  begin  to  re- 
gard what  is  to  come  with  a  kind  of  daemonic 
humour. 

The  mist  that  has  hitherto  blurred  my  vision 
departs.  I  am  able  to  look  about  me  and  to  rec- 
ognise the  place  where  I  am. 

To  be  sure,  that  is  a  new  and  unsuspected 
worid — from  the  rosy  silken  gauze  over  the  toilet 
mirror  that  hangs  from  the  beaks  of  two  floating 
doves,  to  the  row  of  exquisite  little  laced  boots 
that  stands  in  the  opposite  corner.  From  the 
candy  boxes  of  satin,  gold,  glass,  saffron,  ivory, 
porcelain  and  olive  wood  which  adorn  the  dresser 
to  the  edges  of  white  billowy  skirts  which 
hang  in  the  next  room  but  have  been  cau^t 
in  the  door — I  see  nothing  but  miracles,  mir- 
acles. 

A  maddening  fragrance  assaults  my  senses, 
the  same  which  her  note  exhaled.  But  now  that 
fragrance  streams  from  her  delicate,  graceful 
form  in  its  princess  gown  of  pale  yellow  with  red 
bows.  She  dances  and  flutters  about  the  room 
with  so  mysterious  and  elf -like  a  grace  as  thou^ 
she  were  playing   Puck  in  the   "Midsummer 


276  THEA 

Night's  Dream,"  the  part  in  which  she  first  en- 
thralled my  heart. 

Ah,  yes,  she  Uieant  to  get  tea. 

"Well,  why  do  you  stand  there  so  helplessly, 
you  horrid  creature?  Come!  Here  is  a  table- 
cloth, here  are  knives  and  forks.  I'll  light  the 
spirit  lamp  in  the  meantime." 

And  she  slips  by  me  not  without  having  admin- 
istered a  playful  tap  to  my  cheek  and  vanishes 
in  the  dark  room  of  mystery. 

I  am  about  to  follow  her,  but  out  of  the  dark- 
ness I  hear  a  laughing  voice:  "Will  you  stay 
where  you  are,  JNIr.  Curiosity?" 

And  so  I  stand  still  on  the  threshold  and  lay 
my  head  against  those  billowy  skirts.  They  are 
fresh  and  cool  and  ease  my  burning  forehead. 

Immediately  thereafter  I  see  the  light  of  a 
match  flare  up  in  the  darkness,  which  for  a  mo- 
ment sharply  illuminates  the  folds  of  her  dress 
and  is  then  extinguished.  Only  a  feeble,  bluish 
flame  remains.  This  flame  plays  about  a  pol- 
ished little  urn  and  illuminates  dimly  the  secrets 
of  the  forbidden  sanctuary.  I  see  bright  bil- 
lowy garments,  bunches  of  flowers  and  wreaths 
of  leaves,  with  long,  silken,  shimmering  bands — 
and  suddenly  the  flame  flares  high.     .     .     . 

"Now  I've  spilt  the  alcohol,"  I  hear  the  voice 
of  my  friend.  But  her  laughter  is  full  of  sar- 
castic arrogance.    "Ah,  that'll  be  a  ^iay  of  fire!" 


THEA  277 

Higher  and  higher  mount  the  flames. 

"Come,  jump  into  it!"  she  cries  out  to  me, 
and  instead  of  quenching  the  flame  she  pours 
forth  more  alcohol  into  the  furious  conflagra- 
tion. 

"For  heaven's  sake!"  I  cry  out. 

"Do  you  know  now  who  I  am?"  she  giggles, 
"I'm  a  witch!" 

With  jubilant  screams  she  loosens  her  hair  of 
reddish  gold  which  now  falls  about  her  with  a 
flaming  glory.  She  shows  me  her  white  sharp 
teeth  and  with  a  sudden  swift  movement  she 
springs  into  the  flame  which  hisses  to  the  very 
ceiling  and  clothes  the  chamber  in  a  garb  of 
fire. 

I  try  to  call  for  help,  but  my  throat  is  tied,  my 
breath  stops.  I  am  throttled  by  smoke  and 
flames. 

Once  more  I  hear  her  elfin  laughter,  but  now 
it  comes  to  me  from  subterranean  depths.  The 
earth  has  opened ;  new  flames  arise  and  stretch 
forth  fiery  arms  toward  me. 

A  voice  cries  from  the  fires:  "Come!  Come!" 
And  the  voice  is  like  the  sound  of  bells.  Then 
suddenly  the  night  enfolds  me. 

The  witchery  has  fled.  Badly  torn  and  scarred 
I  find  myself  again  on  the  street.  Next  to  me 
on  the  ground  lies  my  play. 


278  THE  A 

"Did  you  not  mean  to  read  that  to  some  one?'* 
I  ask  myself. 

A  warm  and  gentle  air  caresses  my  fevered 
face.  A  blossoming  lilac  bush  inclines  its  boughs 
above  me  and  from  afar,  there  where  the  dawn 
is  about  to  appear,  I  hear  the  clear  trilling  of 
larks. 

I  dream  no  longer.  .  .  .  But  the  spring 
has  come.     .     .     . 


»         IV. 

And  again  the  years  pass  by. 

It  was  on  an  evening  during  the  carnival  sea- 
son and  the  world,  that  is,  the  world  that  be- 
gins with  the  baron  and  ends  with  the  stock- 
jobber, floated  upon  waves  of  pleasure  as  bub- 
bles of  fat  float  on  the  surface  of  soup. 

Whoever  did  not  wallow  in  the  mire  was  sar- 
castically said  not  to  be  able  to  sustain  himself  on 
his  legs. 

There  were  those  among  my  friends  who  had 
not  gone  to  bed  till  morning  for  thirty  days. 
Some  of  them  slept  only  to  the  strains  of  a  world- 
famous  virtuoso;  others  only  in  the  cabs  that 
took  them  from  dinner  to  supper. 

Whenever  three  of  them  met,  one  complained 
of  shattered  nerves,  the  second  of  catarrh  of  the 
stomach,  the  third  of  both. 

That  was  the  pace  of  our  amusement. 

Of  mine,  too. 

It  was  nearly  one'  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I 
sat  in  a  cafe,  that  famous  cafe  which  unacknowl- 
eged  geniuses  afiirm  to  be  the  very  centre  of  all 
intellectual  life.  No  spot  on  earth  is  said  to  have 
so  fruitful  an  effect  upon  one's  genius. 

279 


■    t 


280  THE  A 

Yet,  strangely  enough,  however  eager  for  in- 
spiration I  might  lounge  about  its  red  uphol- 
stery, however  ardently  aglow  for  inspiration  I 
might  drink  expensive  champagnes  there,  yet  the 
supreme,  immense,  all-liberating  thought  did  not 
come. 

Nor  would  that  thought  come  to  me  to-day. 
Less  than  ever,  in  fact.  Red  circles  danced  be- 
fore mv  eves  and  in  my  veins  hammered  the 
throbs  of  fever.  It  wasn't  surprising.  For  I, 
too,  could  scarcely  remember  to  have  slept  re- 
cently. It  is  an  effort  to  raise  my  lids.  The 
hand  that  would  stroke  the  hair  with  the  gesture 
of  genius — alas,  how  thin  the  hair  is  getting — - 
sinks  down  in  nerveless  weakness. 

But  I  may  not  go  home.  Mrs.  Elsbeth — we 
bachelors  call  her  so  when  her  husband  is  not  by 
— Mrs.  Elsbeth  has  ordered  me  to  be  here.  .  .  . 
She  intended  to  drop  in  at  midnight  on  her  re- 
turn from  dinner  with  her  husband.  The  pur- 
pose of  her  coming  is  to  discuss  with  me  the  sur- 
prises which  I  am  to  think  up  for  her  magic  fes- 
tival. 

She  is  exacting  enough,  the  sweet  little 
woman,  but  the  world  has  it  that  I  love  her.  And 
in  order  to  let  the  world  be  in  the  right  a  man 
is  not  averse  to  making  a  fool  of  herself. 

The  stream  of  humanity  eddies  about  me. 
Like  endless  chains  rotating  in  different  direc- 


THE  A  281 

tions,  thus  seem  the  two  lines  of  those  who  enter 
and  those  who  depart.  There  are  dandies  in 
coquettish  furs,  their  silk  hats  low  on  their  fore- 
heads, their  canes  held  vertically  in  their  pockets. 
There  are  fashionable  ladies  in  white  silk  opera 
cloaks  set  with  ermine,  their  eyes  peering  from 
behind  Spanish  veils  in  proud  curiosity.  And 
all  are  illuminated  by  the  spirit  of  festivity. 

Also  one  sees  shop-girls,  dragged  here  by  some 
chance  admirer.  They  wear  brownish  cloaks, 
ornamented  with  knots — the  kind  that  looks  worn 
the  day  it  is  taken  from  the  shop.  And  there  are 
ladies  of  that  species  whom  one  calls  "ladies" 
only  between  quotation  marks.  These  wear  gi- 
gantic picture  hats  trimmed  with  rhinestones. 
The  hems  of  their  dresses  are  torn  and  flecked 
with  last  season's  mud.  There  are  students  who 
desire  to  be  intoxicated  through  the  lust  of  the 
eye;  artists  who  desire  to  regain  a  lost  sobriety 
of  vision;  journalists  who  find  stuff  for  leader 
copy  in  the  blue  despatches  that  are  posted  here ; 
Bohemians  and  loungers  of  every  station,  typi- 
cal of  every  degree  of  sham  dignity  and  equally 
sham  depravity.  They  all  intermingle  in  mani- 
coloured  waves.  It  is  the  mad  masque  of  the 
metropolis.     .     .     . 

A  friend  comes  up  to  me,  one  of  the  three 
hundred  bosom  friends  with  whom  I  am  wont 
to  swap  shady  stories.    He  is  pallid  with  sleep- 


282  THEA 

')"( .:*  ,■■. .. 

lessness,  deep  horizontal  lines  furrow  his  fore- 
head, his  brows  are  convulsively  drawn.  So  we 
all  look    .    .    . 

"Look  here,"  he  says,  "you  weren't  at  the 
Meyers'  yesterday." 

"I  was  invited  elsewhere." 

"Where?" 

I've  got  to  think  a  minute  before  I  can  re- 
member the  name.  We  all  suffer  from  weak- 
ness in  the  head. 

"Aha,"  he  cries.  "I'm  told  it  was  swell. 
Magnificent  women  .  .  .  and  that  fellow 
.  .  .  er  .  .  .  thought  reader  and  what's 
her  name  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  the  Sembrich 
.  .  .  swell  .  .  .  you  must  introduce  me 
there  some  dav.     ..." 

Stretching  his  legs  he  sinks  down  at  my  side 
on  the  sofa. 

Silence.  My  bosom  friend  and  I  have  ex- 
hausted  the  common  stock  of  interests. 

He  has  lit  a  cigarette  and  is  busy  catching  the 
white  clouds  which  he  blows  from  his  nose  with 
his  mouth.  This  employment  seems  to  satisfy 
his  intellect  wholly. 

I,  for  my  part,  stare  at  the  ceiling.  There  the 
golden  bedies  of  snakes  wind  themselves  in  mad 
arabesques  through  chains  of  roses.  The  pre- 
tentious luxury  offends  my  eye.  I  look  farther, 
past  the  candelabrum  of  crystal  which  reflects 


THEA  283 

sharp  rainbow  tints  over  all,  past  the  painted 
columns  whose  shafts  end  in  lily  leaves  as  some 
torturing  spear  does  in  flesh. 

My  glance  stops  yonder  on  the  wall  where  a 
series  of  fresco  pictures  has  been  painted. 

The  forms  of  an  age  that  was  drunk  with 
beauty  look  down  on  me  in  their  victorious  calm. 
They  are  steeped  in  the  glow  of  a  southern 
heaven.  The  rigid  splendour  of  the  marble  walls 
is  contrasted  with  the  magnificent  flow  of  long 
garments. 

It  is  a  Roman  supper.  Rose-crowned  men 
lean  upon  Indian  cushions,  holding  golden  beak- 
ers in  their  right  hands.  Women  in  yielding 
nakedness  cower  at  their  feet.  Through  the  open 
door  streams  in  a  Bacchic  procession  with  fauns 
and  panthers,  the  drunken  Pan  in  its  midst. 
Brown-skinned  slaves  with  leopard  skins  about 
their  loins  make  mad  music.  Among  them  is  one 
who  at  once  makes  me  forget  the  tumult.  She 
leans  her  firm,  naked  body  surreptitiously  against 
the  pillar.  Her  form  is  contracted  with  weari- 
ness. Thoughtlessly  and  with  tired  lips  she  blows 
the  tibia  which  her  nerveless  hands  threaten  to 
drop.  Her  cheeks  are  yellow  and  fallen  in,  her 
eyes  are  glassy,  but  upon  her  forehead  are  seen 
the  folds  of  lordship  and  about  her  mouth 
wreaths  a  stony  smile  of  irony. 


i 


284  THEA 

Who  is  she?  Whence  does  she  come?  I  ask 
myself.  But  I  feel  a  dull  thud  against  my 
shoulder.  My  bosom  friend  has  fallen  asleep 
and  is  using  me  as  a  pillow. 

"Look  here,  you!"  I  call  out  to  him,  for  I 
have  for  the  moment  forgotten  his  name.  "Go 
home  and  go  to  bed." 

He  starts  up  and  gazes  at  me  with  swimming 
eyes. 

"Do  you  mean  me?"  he  stutters.  "That's  a 
good  joke."  And  next  moment  he  begins  to 
snore. 

I  hide  him  as  well  as  possible  with  my  broad 
back  and  bend  down  over  the  glittering  samovar 
before  me.  The  fragrant  steam  prickles  my 
nose. 

It  is  time  that  the  little  woman  turn  up  if  I 
am  to  amuse  her  guests. 

I  think  of  the  brown-skinned  woman  yonder 
in  the  painting. 

I  open  my  eyes.  Merciful  heaven!  What  is 
that? 

For  the  woman  stands  erect  now  in  all  the  firm 
magnificence  of  her  young  limbs,  presses  her 
clenched  fists  against  her  forehead  and  stares 
down  at  me  with  glowing  eyes. 

And  suddenly  she  hurls  the  flutes  from  her  in 
a  long  curve  and  cries  with  piercing  voice:  "No 
more     ...     I  will  play  no  more!' 


I" 


THEA  285 

It  is  the  voice  of  a  slave  at  the  moment  of 
liberation. 

**jFor  heaven's  sake,  woman!"  I  cry.  "What 
afB  you  doing?  You  will  be  slain;  you  will  be 
thrown  to  the  wild  beasts!" 

She  points  about  her  with  a  gesture  that  is  full 
of  disgust  and  contempt. 

Then  I  see  what  she  means.  All  that  com- 
pany has  fallen  asleep.  The  men  lie  back  with 
open  mouths,  the  goblets  still  in  their  hands. 
Golden  cascades  of  wine  fall  glittering  upon  the 
marble.  The  women  writhe  in  these  pools  of 
wine.  But  even  in  the  intoxication  of  their 
dreams  they  try  to  guard  their  elaborate  hair 
dress.  The  whole  mad  band,  musicians  and  ani- 
mals, lies  there  with  limbs  dissolved,  panting  for 
air,  overwhelmed  by  heavy  sleep. 

"The  way  is  free!"  cries  the  flute  player  jubi- 
lantly and  buries  her  twitching  fingers  into  the 
flesh  of  her  breasts.  "What  is  there  to  hinder 
my  flight?" 

"Whither  do  you  flee,  mad  woman?"  I  ask. 

A  gleam  of  dreamy  ecstasy  glides  over  her 
grief -worn  face  which  seems  to  flush  and  grow 
softer  of  outline. 

**Home — ^to  freedom,"  she  whispers  down  to 
me  and  her  eyes  burn. 

"Where  is  your  home?" 

"In  the  desert,"  she  cries.    "Here  I  play  for 


286  THEA 

their  dances;  there  I  am  queen.  My  name  is 
Thea  and  it  is  resonant  through  storms.  They 
chained  me  with  golden  chains;  they  lured  me 
with  golden  speeches  until  I  left  my  people  and 
followed  them  to  their  prison  that  is  corroded 
with  lust.  .  .  .  Ah,  if  you  knew  with  my 
knowledge,  you  would  not  sit  here  either.  .  .  . 
But  the  slave  of  the  moment  knows  not  liberty." 

"I  have  known  it,"  I  say  drearily  and  let  my 
chin  sink  upon  the  table. 

"And  you  are  here?" 

Contemptuously  she  turns  her  back  to  me. 

"Take  me  with  you,  Thea,"  I  cry,  "take  me 
with  you  to  freedom." 

"Can  you  still  endure  it." 

"I  will  endure  the  glory  of  freedom  or  die  of 
it." 

"Then  come." 

A  brown  arm  that  seems  endless  stretches 
down  to  me.  An  iron  grasp  lifts  me  upward. 
Noise  and  lights  dislimn  in  the  distance. 

Our  way  lies  through  great,  empty,  pillared 
halls  which  curve  above  us  like  twilit  cathedrals. 
Great  stairs  follow  which  fall  into  black  depths 
like  waterfalls  of  stone.  Thence  issues  a  mist, 
green  with  silvery  edges.     .     .     . 

A  dizziness  seizes  me  as  I  strive  to  look  down- 
ward. 

I  have  a  presentiment  of  something  formless. 


THEA  287 

limitless.  A.  vague  awe  and  terror  fill  me.  I 
tremble  and  draw  back  but  an  alien  hand  con- 
strains me. 

We  wander  along  a  moonlit  street.  To  the 
right  and  left  extend  pallid  plains  from  which 
dark  cypress  trees  arise,  straight  as  candles. 

It  is  all  wide  and  desolate  like  those  halls. 

In  the  far  distance  arise  sounds  like  half 
smothered  cries  of  the  dying,  but  they  grow  to 
music. 

Shrill  jubilation  echoes  between  the  sounds 
and  it  too  grows  to  music. 

But  this  music  is  none  other  than  the  roaring 
of  the  storm  which  lashes  us  on  when  we  dare  to 
faint. 

And  we  wander,  wander  .  .  .  days, 
weeks,  months.    Who  knows  how  long? 

Night  and  day  are  alike.  We  do  not  rest ;  nor 
speak. 

The  road  is  far  behind  us.  We  wander  upon 
trackless  wastes. 

Stonier  grows  the  way,  an  eternal  up  and  down 
over  cliflPs  and  through  chasms.  .  .  .  The 
edges  of  the  weathered  stones  become  steps  for 
our  feet.  Breathlessly  we  climb  the  peaks.  Be- 
yond them  we  clatter  into  new  abysms. 

My  feet  bleed.  My  limbs  jerk  numbly  like 
those  of  a  jumping-jack.  An  earthy  taste  is-oii 
my  lips. 


288  THE  A 

I  have  long  lost  all  sense  of  progress.  One 
cliff  is  like  another  in  its  jagged  nakedness;  one 
abysm  dark  and  empty  as  another.  Perhaps  I 
wander  in  a  circle.  Perhaps  this  brown  hand  is 
leading  me  wildly  astray,  this  hand  whose  grasp 
has  penetrated  my  flesh,  and  has  grown  into  it 
like  the  fetter  of  a  slave. 

Suddenly  I  am  alone. 

I  do  not  know  how  it  came  to  pass. 

I  drag  myself  to  a  peak  and  look  about  me. 

There  spreads  in  the  crimson  glow  of  dawn 
the  endless,  limitless  rocky  desert — an  ocean 
turned  to  stone. 

Jagged  walls  tower  in  eternal  monotony  into 
the  immeasurable  distance  which  is  hid  from  me 
by  no  merciful  mist.  Out  of  invisible  abysms 
arise  sharp  peaks.  A  storm  from  the  south 
lashes  their  flanks  from  which  the  cracked  stone 
fragments  roll  to  become  the  foundations  of  new 
walls. 

The  sun,  hard  and  sharp  as  a  merciless  eye, 
arises  slowly  in  this  parched  sky  and  spreads  its 
cloak  of  flre  over  this  dead  world. 

The  stone  upon  which  I  sit  begins  to  glow. 

The  storm  drives  splinters  of  stone  into  my 
flesh.  A  fiery  stream  of  dust  mounts  toward  me. 
Madness  descends  upon  me  like  a  fiery  canopy. 

Shall  I  wander  on?    Shall  I  die? 

I  wander  on,  for  I  am  too  weary  to  die. 


THE  A  289 

At  last,  far  off,  on  a  ledge  of  rock,  I  see  the 
figure  of  a  man. 

Like  a  black  spot  it  interrupts  this  sea  of  light 
in  which  the  very  shadows  have  become  a  crim- 
son glow. 

An  unspeakable  yearning  after  this  man  fills 
my  soul.  For  his  steps  are  secure.  His  feet  are 
scarcely  lifted,  yet  quietly  does  he  fare  down  the 
chasms  and  up  the  heights.  I  want  to  rush  to 
meet  him  but  a  great  numbness  holds  me  back. 

He  comes  nearer  and  nearer. 

I  see  a  pallid,  bearded  countenance  with  high 
cheekbones,  and  emaciated  cheeks.  .  .  .  The 
mouth,  delicate  and  gentle  as  a  girl's,  is  drawn 
in  a  quiet  smile.  A  bitterness  that  has  grown 
into  love,  into  renunciation,  even  into  joy,  shines 
in  this  smile. 

And  at  the  sight  of  it  I  feel  warm  and  free. 

And  then  I  see  his  eye  which  is  round  and 
sharp  as  though  open  through  the  watches  of 
many  nights.  With  moveless  clearness  of  vision 
he  measures  the  distances,  and  is  careless  of  the 
way  which  his  foot  finds  without  groping.  In 
this  look  lies  a  dreaming  glow  which  turns  to 
waking  coldness. 

A  tremour  of  reverence  seizes  my  body. 

And  now  I  know  who  this  man  is  who  fares 
through  the  desert  in  solitary  thought,  and  to 
whom  horror  has  shown  the  way  to  peace. 


290  THE  A 

He  looks  past  me!  How  could  it  be  differ- 
ent? 

I  dare  not  call  to  him.  Movelessly  I  stare  af- 
ter him  until  his  form  has  vanished  in  the  guise 
of  a  black  speck  behind  the  burning  cliffs. 

Then  I  wander  farther  .  .  .  and  farther 
.     .     .     and  farther.     .     .     . 

It  was  on  a  grayish  yellow  day  of  autumn  that 
I  sat  again  after  an  interv^al  on  the  upholstery  of 
the  famous  cafe.  I  looked  gratefully  up  at  the 
brown  slave-girl  in  the  picture  who  blew  upon 
her  flutes  as  sleepily  and  dully  as  ever.  I  had 
come  to  see  her. 

I  start  for  I  feel  a  tap  on  my  shoulder. 

In  brick-red  gloves,  his  silk-hat  over  his  fore- 
head, a  little  more  tired  and  world-worn  than 
ever,  that  bosom  friend  whose  name  I  have  now 
definitely  forgotten  stood  before  me. 

"Where  the  devil  have  you  been  all  this  time?" 
he  asks. 

"Somewhere,"  I  answer  laughing.  "In  the 
desert."     .     .     . 

"Gee!    What  were  you  looking  for  there?' 

''Myself/'     .     .     . 


}»> 


V. 

And  ever  swifter  grows  the  beat  of  time's 
wing.  My  breath  can  no  longer  keep  the  same 
pace. 

Thoughtless  enjoyment  of  life  has  long 
yielded  to  a  life  and  death  struggle. 

And  I  am  conquered. 

Wretchedness  and  want  have  robbed  me  of 
my  grasping  courage  and  of  my  laughing  de- 
fiance. The  body  is  sick  and  the  soul  droops 
its  wings. 

Midnight  approaches.  The  smoky  lamp  bums 
more  dimly  and  outside  on  the  streets  life  begins 
to  die  out.  Only  from  time  to  time  the  snow 
crunches  and  groans  under  the  hurrying  foot  of 
some  belated  and  freezing  passer-by.  The  re- 
flection of  the  gas  lamps  rests  upon  the  frozen 
windows  as  though  a  yellow  veil  had  been  drawn 
before  them. 

In  the  room  hovers  a  dull  heat  which  weighs 
upon  my  brain  and  even  amid  shivering  wrings 
the  sweat  from  my  pores. 

I  had  the  fire  started  again  toward  night  for 
I  was  cold. 

291 


■"'i®;-!;.: 


292  THEA 

Now  I  am  no  longer  cold. 

"Take  care  of  yourself,"  my  friend  the  doc- 
tor said  to  me,  "yon  have  worked  yourself  to 
pieces  and  must  rest." 

"Rest,  rest" — the  word  sounds  like  a  gnome's 
irony  from  all  the  corners  of  my  room,  for  my 
work  is  heaping  up  on  all  sides  and  threatens  to 
smother  me. 

"Work!  Work!"  This  is  the  voice  of  con- 
science. It  is  like  tlie  voice  of  a  brutal  wag- 
goner that  would  urge  a  dead  ass  on  to  new 
efforts. 

My  paper  is  in  its  place.  For  hours  I  have  sat 
and  stared  at  it  brooding.    It  is  still  empty. 

A  disagreeably  sweetish  odour  which  arises 
impudently  to  my  nose  makes  me  start. 

There  stands  the  pitcher  of  herb  tea  which  my 
landlady  brought  in  at  bedtime. 

The  dear  woman. 

"Man  must  sweat,"  she  had  declared.  "If  the 
whole  man  gets  into  a  sweat  then  the  evil  hu- 
mours are  exuded,  and  the  healthy  sap  gets  a 
chance  to  circulate  until  one  is  full  of  it." 

And  saying  that  she  wiped  her  greasy  lips 
for  she  likes  to  eat  a  piece  of  rye  bread  with 
goose  grease  before  going  to  bed. 

Irritatedly  I  push  the  little  pitcher  aside,  but 
its  grayish  green  steam  whirls  only  the  more 
pertinaciously  about  me.     The    clouds    assume 


THEA  293 

strange  forms,  which  tower  over  each  other  and 
whirl  into  each  other  like  the  phantoms  over  a 
witch's  cauldron. 

And  at  last  the  fumes  combine  into  a  human 
form,  at  first  misty  and  without  outlines  but 
gradually  becoming  more  sharply  defined. 

Gray,  gray,  gray.  An  aged  woman.  So  she 
seems,  for  she  creeps  along  by  the  help  of  a 
crutch.  But  over  her  face  is  a  veil  which  falls 
to  the  ground  over  her  arms  like  the  folded 
wings  of  a  bat. 

I  begin  to  laugh,  for  spirits  have  long  ceased 
to  inspire  me  with  reverence. 

"Is  your  name  by  any  chance  Thea,  O  lovely 
being?"  I  ask. 

"My  name  is  Thea,"  she  answers  and  her  voice 
is  weary,  gentle  and  a  little  hoarse.  A  caressing 
shimmer  as  of  faintly  blue  velvet,  an  insinuating 
fragrance  as  of  dying  mignonette — ^both  lie  in 
this  voice.  The  voice  fills  my  heart.  But  I 
won't  be  taken  in,  least  of  all  by  some  trite 
ghost  which  is  in  the  end  only  a  vision  of  one's 
own  sick  brain. 

"It  seems  that  the  years  have  not  changed  you 
for  the  better,  charming  Thea,"  I  say  and  point 
sarcastically  to  the  crutch. 

"My  wings  are  broken  and  I  am  withered  like 
yourself." 

I  laugh  aloud. 


294  THEA 

"So  that  is  the  meaning  of  this  honoured  ap- 
parition! A  mirror  of  myself — spirit  of  ruin — 
a  symbohc  poem  on  the  course  of  my  ideas. 
Pshaw!  I  know  that  trick.  Every  brainless 
Christmas  poet  knows  it,  too.  You  must  come 
with  a  more  powerful  charm,  O  Thea,  spirit  of 
the  herb  tea!  Good-bye.  My  time  is  too  pre- 
cious to  be  wasted  by  allegories." 

"What  have  you  to  do  that  is  so  important?" 
she  asks,  and  I  seem  to  see  the  gleam  of  her  eyes 
behind  the  folds  of  the  veil,  whether  in  laughter 
or  in  grief  I  cannot  tell. 

"If  I  have  nothing  more  to  do,  I  must  die,"  I 
answer  and  feel  with  joy  how  my  defiance  steels 
itself  in  these  words. 

"And  that  seems  important  to  you?" 

"Moderately  so." 

"Important  to  whom?" 

"To  myself,  I  should  think,  if  to  no  one  else." 

"And  your  creditor — the  world?" 

That  was  the  last  straw.  "The  world,  oh, 
yes,  the  world.    And  what,  pray,  do  I  owe  it?" 

"Love." 

"Love?  To  that  harlot?  Because  it  sucked 
the  fire  from  my  veins  and  poured  poison  there- 
in instead?  Behold  me  here — wrecked,  broken, 
a  plaything  of  any  wave.  That  is  what  the 
world  has  made  of  me !" 

"That  is  what  you  have  made  of  yourself  I 


filEA  295 

.  .  .  The  world  came  to  you  as  a  smiling 
guide.  .  .  .  With  gentle  finger  it  touched 
your  shoulder  and  desired  you  to  follow.  But 
you  were  stubborn.  You  went  your  own  way  in 
dark  and  lonely  caverns  where  the  laughing  music 
of  the  fight  that  sounds  from  above  becomes  a 
discordant  thunder.  You  were  meant  to  be 
wise  and  merry;  you  became  dull  and  morose." 

"Very  well;  if  that  is  what  I  became,  at  least 
the  grave  will  release  me  from  my  condition." 

"Test  yourself  thoroughly." 

"What  is  the  use  of  that  now?  Life  has  crip- 
pled me.  .  .  .  What  of  joy  it  has  to  offer 
becomes  torture  to  me.  ...  I  am  cut  loose 
from  all  the  kindly  bonds  that  bind  man  to  man. 
.  .  .  I  cannot  bear  hatred,  neither  can  I  bear 
love.  ...  I  tremble  at  a  thousand  dangers 
that  have  never  threatened  and  will  never 
threaten  me.  A  very  straw  has  become  a  cliff 
to  me  against  which  I  founder  and  against  which 
my  weary  limbs  are  dashed  in  pieces.  .  .  . 
And  this  is  the  worst  of  all.  My  vision  sees 
clearly  that  it  is  but  a  straw  before  which  my 
strength  writhes  in  the  dust.  .  .  .  You  have 
come  at  the  right  time,  Thea.  Perhaps  you  carry 
in  the  folds  of  your  robe  some  little  potion  that 
will  help  me  to  hurry  across  the  verge." 

Again  I  see  a  gleam  behind  the  veil — a  smiling 
salutation  from  some  far  land  where  the  sun  is 


"is^'rl^' 


296  THEA 


still  shining.  And  my  heart  seems  about  to 
burst  under  that  gleam.  But  I  control  myself 
and  continue  to  gaze  at  her  with  bitter  defiance. 
"It  needs  no  potion,"  she  says  and  raises  her 
right  hand.  I  have  never  seen  such  a  hand.  .  .  . 
It  seem  to  be  without  bones,  formed  of  the  petals 
of  flowers.  The  hand  might  seem  deformed, 
dried  and  yet  swollen  as  with  disease,  were  it  not 
so  delicate,  so  radiant,  so  lily-like.  An  imspeak- 
able  yearning  for  this  poor,  sick  hand  overcomes 
me.  I  want  to  fall  on  my  knees  before  it  and 
press  my  lips  to  it  in  adoration.  But  already 
the  hand  lays  itself  softly  upon  my  hair.  Gen- 
tle and  cool  as  a  flake  of  snow  it  rests  there. 
But  from  moment  to  moment  it  waxes  heavier 
until  the  weight  of  mountains  seems  to  lie  upon 
my  head.  I  can  bear  the  pressure  no  longer. 
I  sink  ...  I  sink  .  .  .  the  earth  opens 
.     .     .     Darkness  is  all  about  me.     .     .     . 

Recovering  consciousness,  I  find  myself  lying 
in  a  bed  surrounded  by  impenetrable  night. 

"One  of  my  stupid  dreams,"  I  say  to  myself 
and  grope  for  the  matches  on  my  bedside  table 
to  see  the  time.  .  .  .  But  my  hand  strikes 
hard  against  a  board  that  rises  diagonally  at  my 
shoulder.  I  grope  farther  and  discover  that  my 
couch  is  surrounded  by  a  cloak  of  wood.  And 
that  cloak  is  so  narrow,  so  narrow  that  I  can 


THE  A  297 

scarcely  raise  my  head  a  few  inches  without 
knocking  against  it. 

"Perhaps  I  am  buried,"  I  say  to  myself. 
"Then  indeed  my  wish  would  have  fulfilled  itself 
promptly." 

A  fresh  softly  prickling  scent  of  flowers,  as  of 
heather  and  roses,  floats  to  me. 

"Aha,"  I  say  to  myself,  "the  odour  of  the  fun- 
eral flowers.  My  favourites  have  been  chosen. 
That  was  kind  of  people."  And,  as  I  turn  my 
head  the  cups  of  flowers  nestle  soft  and  cool 
against  my  cheek. 

"You  are  buried  amid  roses,"  I  say  to  myself, 
**as  you  always  desired.  And  then  I  touch  my 
breast  to  discover  what  gift  has  been  placed  upon 
my  heart.    My  fingers  touch  hard,  jagged  leaves. 

"What  is  that?"  I  ask  myself  in  surprise.  And 
then  I  laugh  shrilly.  It  is  a  wreath  of  laurel 
leaves  which  has  been  pressed  with  its  rough, 
woodlike  leaves  between  my  body  and  the  cofiin 
lid. 

"Now  you  have  everything  that  you  so 
ardently  desired,  you  fool  of  fame,"  I  cry  out 
and  a  mighty  irony  takes  hold  of  me. 

And  then  I  stretch  out  my  legs  until  my  feet 
reach  the  end  of  the  coffin,  nestle  my  head  amid 
the  flowers,  and  make  ready  to  enjoy  my  great 
peace  with  all  my  might.  I  am  not  in  the  least 
frightened  or  confounded,  for  I  know  that  air 


■Trc^epptwiK»-,Y.  ■->.■'■■■-— ■■-    ■■._,-.  ■v;'.-^;.-'-/7---»...-::r^y;  ■  "       ^   i-    x""*^ v„«p^7SMi 


298  THEA 


to  breathe  will  never  again  be  lacking  now  for  I 
need  it  no  longer.  I  am  dead,  properly  and 
honestly  dead.  Nothing  remains  now  but  to 
flow  peacefully  and  gently  into  the  realm  of  the 
unconscious,  and  to  let  the  dim  dream  of  the  All 
surge  over  me  to  eternity. 

*' Good-night,  my  dear  former  fellow-crea- 
tures," I  say  and  turn  contemptuously  on  my 
other  side.  "You  can  all  go  to  the  dickens  for 
all  I  care." 

And  then  I  determine  to  lie  still  as  a  mouse 
and  discover  whether  I  cannot  find  some  food 
for  the  malice  that  yet  is  in  me,  by  listening 
to  man's  doings  upon  the  wretched  earth  above 
me. 

At  first  I  hear  nothing  but  a  dull  roaring. 
But  that  may  proceed  as  well  from  the  subter- 
ranean waters  that  rush  through  the  earth  some- 
where in  my  neighbourhood.  But  no,  the  sound 
comes  from  above.  And  from  time  to  time  I 
also  hear  a  rattling  and  hissing  as  of  dried  peas 
poured  out  over  a  sieve. 

"Of  course,  it's  wretched  weather  again,"  I 
say  and  rub  my  hands  comfortably,  not,  to  be 
sure,  without  knocking  my  elbows  against  the 
side  of  the  coffin. 

"They  could  have  made  this  place  a  little 
roomier,"  I  say  to  myself.  But  when  it  occurs 
to  me  that,  in  my  character  of  an  honest  corpse. 


THEA  299 

I  have  no  business  to  move  at  all  if  I  want  to 
be  a  credit  to  my  new  station. 

But  the  spirit  of  contradiction  in  me  at  once 
rebels  against  this  imputation. 

"There  are  no  classes  in  the  grave  and  no 
prejudices,"  I  cry.  "In  the  grave  we  are  all 
alike,  high  and  low,  poor  and  rich.  The  rags  of 
the  beggar,  my  masters,  have  here  just  the  same 
value  as  the  purple  cloak  that  falls  from  the 
shoulders  of  a  king.  Here  even  the  laurel  loses 
its  significance  as  the  crown  of  fame  and  is  given 
to  many  a  one." 

I  cease,  for  my  fingers  have  discovered  a 
riband  that  hangs  from  the  wreath.  Upon  it,  I 
am  justified  in  assuming,  there  is  written  some 
flattering  legend.  The  letters  are  just  raised 
enough  to  be  indistinctly  felt. 

I  am  about  to  call  for  matches,  but  remember 
just  in  time  that  it  is  forbidden  to  strike  a  light 
in  the  grave  or  rather,  that  it  is  contrary  to 
the  very  conception  of  the  grave  to  be  illumi- 
nated. 

This  thought  annoys  me  and  I  continue :  "The 
laurel  is  given  here  not  to  the  distinguished 
alone.  I  must  correct  that  expression.  Are  not 
we  corpses  distinguished  per  se  as  compared  to 
the  miserable  plebeian  living?  Is  not  this  noble 
rest  in  which  we  dwell  an  unmistakable  sign  of 
true  aristocracy?    And  the  laurel  that  is  given 


*f  T;y^-x%:'^»^i  w'^fnv:^}^ 


300  THEA 

to  the  dead,  that  laurel,  my  masters,  fills  me  with 
as  high  a  pride  as  would  the  diadem  of  a  king." 

I  ceased.  For  I  could  rightly  expect  enthu- 
siastic applause  at  the  close  of  this  effective  pas- 
sage. But  as  everything  remained  silent  I  turned 
my  thoughts  once  more  upon  myself,  and  con- 
sidered, too,  that  ni}^  finest  speeches  would  find 
no  public  here. 

"It  is,  besides,  in  utter  contradiction  to  the 
conception  of  death  to  deliver  speeches,"  I  said 
to  myself,  but  at  once  I  began  another  in  order 
to  establish  an  opposition  against  myself. 

"Conception?  What  is  a  conception?  What 
do  I  care  for  conceptions  here?  I  am  dead.  I 
have  earned  the  sacred  right  to  disregard  such 
things.  If  those  two-penny  living  creatures  can- 
not imagine  the  grave  otherwise  than  dark  or 
the  dead  otherwise  than  dumb — why,  I  surely 
have  no  need  to  care  for  that." 

In  the  meantime  my  fingers  had  scratched 
about  on  the  riband  in  the  vain  hope  of  inferring 
from  the  gilt  and  raised  letters  on  the  silk  their 
form  and  perhaps  the  significance  of  the  legend. 
Mv  efforts  were,  however,  without  success. 
Hence  I  continued  outraged:  "In  order  to  speak 
first  of  the  conception  of  the  grave  as  dark,  I 
should  like  to  ask  any  intelligent  and  expert 
corpse:  *Why  is  the  grave  necessarily  dark?* 
Should  not  we  who  are  dead  rather  demand  of 


THEA  301 

an  age  that  Has  made  such  enormous  progress 
in  illumination,  which  has  not  only  invented  gas 
and  electric  lighting  and  complied  with  the  regu- 
lations for  the  illumination  of  streets,  but  has  at 
a  slight  cost  succeeded  in  giving  to  every  corner 
of  the  world  the  very  light  of  day — ^may  we  not 
demand  of  such  an  age  that  it  put  an  end  to  the 
old-fashioned  darkness  of  the  grave?  It  would 
seem  as  if  the  most  elementary  piety  would  con- 
strain the  living  to  this  improvement.  But  when 
did  the  living  ever  feel  any  piety?  We  must 
enforce  from  them  the  necessaries  of  a  worthy 
existence  in  death.  Gentlemen,  I  close  with  the 
last,  or,  I  had  better  say,  the  first  words  of  our 
great  Goethe  whose  genius  with  characteristic 
power  of  divination  foresaw  the  unworthy  con- 
dition of  the  inner  grave  and  the  necessities  of 
a  truly  noble  and  liberal  minded  corpse.  For 
what  else  could  be  the  meaning  of  that  saying 
which  I  herewith  inscribe  upon  our  banner: 
'Light,  more  light!'  That  must  henceforth  be 
our  device  and  our  battlecry." 

This  time,  too,  silence  was  my  only  answer. 
Whence  I  inferred  that  in  the  grave  there  is 
neither  striving  nor  crying  out.  ^N^evertheless  I 
continued  to  amuse  myself  and  made  many  a 
speech  against  the  management  of  the  cemetery, 
against  the  insufficiency  of  the  method  of  flat 
pressure  upon  the  dead  now  in  use,  and  similar 


! 

802  THEA 

outrages.  In  the  meantime  the  storm  above  had 
raged  and  the  rain  lashed  its  fill  and  a  peaceful 
silence  descended  upon  all  things. 

Only  from  time  to  time  did  I  hear  a  short,  dull 
uniform  thunder,  which  I  could  not  account  for 
until  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  was  produced  by 
the  footsteps  of  passers-by,  the  noise  of  which 
was  thus  echoed  and  multiplied  in  the  earth. 

And  then  suddenly  I  heard  the  sound  of 
human  voices. 

The  sound  came  vertically  down  to  my  head. 

People  seemed  to  be  standing  at  my  grave. 

"Much  I  care  about  you,"  I  said,  and  was 
about  to  continue  to  reflect  on  my  epoch-mak- 
ing invention  which  is  to  be  called:  'Helmino- 
thanatos/  that  is  to  say,  'Death  by  Worms'  and 
which,  so  soon  as  it  is  completed  is  to  be  regis- 
tered in  the  patent  office  as  number  156,763. 
But  my  desire  to  know  what  was  thought  of  me 
after  my  death  left  me  no  rest.  Hence  I  did 
not  hesitate  long  to  press  my  ear  to  the  inner 
roof  of  the  coffin  in  order  that  the  sound  might 
better  reach  me  thus. 

Now  I  recognised  the  voices  at  once. 

They  belonged  to  two  men  to  whom  I  had 
always  been  united  by  bonds  of  the  tenderest 
sympathy  and  whom  I  was,  proud  to  call  my 
friends.  They  had  always  assured  me  of  the  high 
value  which  they  set  upon  me  and  that  their 


THEA  303 

blame — ^with  which  they  had  often  driven  me  to 
secret  despair — proceeded  wholly  from  helpful 
and  unselfish  love. 

"Poor  devil,"  one  of  them  said,  in  a  tone  of 
such  humiliating  compassion  that  I  was  ashamed 
of  myself  in  the  very  grave. 

"He  had  to  bite  the  dust  pretty  early,"  the 
other  sighed.  "But  it  was  better  so  both  for 
him  and  for  myself.  I  could  not  have  held  him 
above  water  much  longer."     .     .     . 

From  sheer  astonishment  I  knocked  my  head 
so  hard  against  the  side  of  the  coffin  that  a  bump 
remained. 

"When  did  you  ever  hold  me  above  water?" 
I  wanted  to  cry  out  but  I  considered  that  they 
could  not  hear  me. 

Then  the  first  one  spoke  again. 

"I  often  found  it  hard  enough  to  aid  him 
with  my  counsel  without  wounding  his  vanity. 
For  we  know  how  vain  he  was  and  how  taken 
with  himself." 

"And  yet  he  achieved  little  enough,"  the  other 
answered.  "He  ran  after  women  and  sought  the 
society  of  inferior  persons  for  the  sake  of  their 
flattery.  It  always  astonished  me  anew  when 
he  managed  to  produce  something  of  approxi- 
mately solid  worth.  For  neither  his  character 
nor  his  intelligence  gave  promise  of  it." 

"In  your  wonderful  charity  you  are  capable 


■  -■;  5f"  .*'"~'!?'^?y^'~;»w^=»ier.i5f55p™w- ■ 


304  THEA 

of  finding  something  excellent  even  in  his  work,'* 
the  other  replied.  "But  let  us  be  frank:  The 
only  thing  he  sometimes  succeeded  in  doing  was 
to  flatter  the  crude  instincts  of  the  mob.  True 
earnestness  or  conviction  he  never  possessed." 

"I  never  claimed  either  for  him,"  the  first 
eagerly  broke  in.  "Only  I  didn't  want  to  deny 
the  poor  fellow  that  bit  of  piety  which  is  de- 
manded.   De  mortuis " 

And  both  voices  withdraw  into  the  distance. 

"O  you  grave-robbers !"  I  cried  and  shook  my 
fist  after  them.  "Now  I  know  what  your  friend- 
ship was  worth.  Now  it  is  clear  to  me  how  you 
humiliated  me  upon  all  my  ways,  and  how  when 
I  came  to  you  in  hours  of  depression  you  admin- 
istered a  kick  in  order  that  you  might  increase 
in  stature  at  my  expense!  Oh,  if  I  could 
only."     ... 

I  ceased  laughing. 

"What  silly  wishes,  old  boy!"  I  admonished 
myself.  "Even  if  you  could  master  your  friends; 
your  enemies  would  drive  you  into  the  grave  a 
thousand  times  over." 

And  I  determined  to  devote  my  whole  thought 
henceforth  to  the  epoch-making  invention  of  my 
impregnating  fluid  called  "Helminoihanatos'*  or 
"Death  by  Worms." 

But  new  voices  roused  me  from  my  medita- 
tion. 


THEA  305 

I  LISTENED. 

"That's  where  what's  his  name  is  buried,"  said 
one. 

"Quite  right,"  said  the  other.  "I  gave  him 
many  a  good  hit  while  he  was  among  us — more 
than  I  care  to  think  about  to-day.  But  he  was 
an  able  fellow.  His  worst  enemy  couldn't  deny- 
that." 

I  started  and  shuddered. 

I  knew  well  who  he  was :  my  bitterest  oppon- 
ent who  tortured  me  so  long  with  open  lashes 
and  hidden  stabs  that  I  almost  ended  by  think- 
ing I  deserved  nothing  else. 

And  he  had  a  good  word  to  say  for  me — 
he? 

His  voice  went  on.  "To-dav  that  he  is  out 
of  our  way  we  may  as  well  confess  that  we  al- 
ways liked  him  a  great  deal.  He  took  life  and 
work  seriously  and  never  used  an  indecent  wea- 
pon against  us.  And  if  the  tactics  of  war  had 
not  forced  us  to  represent  his  excellences  as 
faults,  we  might  have  learned  a  good  deal  from 
him." 

"It's  a  great  pity,"  said  the  other.  "If, 
before  everything  was  at  sixes  and  sevens,  he 
could  have  been  persuaded  to  adopt  our 
views,  we  could  perhaps  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  receiving  him  into  our  fighting 
lines.'* 


I 


i 


806  THE  A 

"With  open  arms,"  was  the  answer.  And 
then  in  solemn  tone: 

"Peace  be  to  his  ashes." 

The  other  echoed:  "Peace     .     .     ." 

And  then  they  went  on.     .     .     . 

I  hid  my  face  in  my  hands.  My  breast  seemed 
to  expand  and  gently,  very  gently  something 
began  to  beat  in  it  which  had  rested  in  silent 
nmnbness  since  I  lay  down  here. 

"So  that  is  the  nature  of  the  world's  judg- 
ment," I  said  to  myself.  "I  should  have  known 
that  before.  With  head  proudly  erect  I  would 
have  gone  my  way,  uninfluenced  by  the  glitter  of 
false  affection  as  by  the  blindness  of  wildly  aim- 
ing hatred.  I  would  have  shaken  praise  and 
blame  from  me  with  the  same  joyous  laugh  and 
sought  the  norm  of  achievement  in  myself  alone. 
Oh,  if  only  I  could  live  once  more!  If  only 
there  were  a  way  out  of  these  accursed  six 
boards !" 

In  impotent  rage  I  pounded  the  cofiin  top 
with  my  fist  and  only  succeeded  in  running  a 
splinter  into  my  finger. 

And  then  there  came  over  me  once  more,  even 
though  it  came  hesitatingly  and  against  my  will, 
a  delightful. consciousness  of  that  eternal  peace 
into  which  I  had  entered. 

"Would  it  be  worth  the  trouble  after  all,"  I 
said  to  myself,  "to  return  to  the  fray  once  more, 


THEA  307 

even  if  I  were  a  thousand  times  certain  of  vic- 
tory? What  is  this  victory  worth?  Even  if  I 
succeed  in  being  the  first  to  mount  some  height 
untrod  hitherto  by  any  human  foot,  yet  the  next 
generation  will  climb  on  my  shoulders  and  hurl 
me  down  into  the  abysm  of  oblivion.  There  I 
could  lie,  lonely  and  helpless,  until  the  six  boards 
are  needed  again  to  help  me  to  my  happiness. 
'And  so  let  me  be  content  and  wait  until  that 
thing  in  my  breast  which  has  began  to  beat  so 
impudently,  has  become  quiet  once  more." 

I  stretched  myself  out,  folded  my  hands,  and 
determined  to  hold  no  more  incendiary  speeches 
and  thus  counteract  the  trade  of  the  worms,  but 
rather  to  doze  quietly  into  the  All. 

Thus  I  lay  again  for  a  space. 

Then  arose  somewhere  a  strange  musical 
sound,  which  penetrated  my  dreamy  state  but 
partially  at  first  before  it  awakened  me  wholly 
from  my  slumber. 

What  was  that?    A  signal  of  the  last  day? 

"It's  all  the  same  to  me,"  I  said  and  stretched 
myself.  "Whether  it's  heaven  or  hell — it  will  be 
a  new  experience." 

But  the  sound  that  had  awakened  me  had 
nothing  in  common  with  the  metallic  blare  of 
trumpets  which  religious  guides  have  taught  us 
to  expect. 

Gentle  and  insinuating,  now  like  the  tones  of 


308  THEA 

flutes  played  by  children,  now  like  the  sobbing 
of  a  girl's  voice,  now  like  the  caressing  sweet- 
ness with  which  a  mother  speaks  to  her  little  child 
— so  infinitely  manifold  but  always  full  of  sweet 
and  yearning  magic — alien  and  yet  dear  and  fa- 
miliar— such  was  the  music  that  came  to  my 
ear. 

"Where  have  I  heard  that  before?"  I  asked 
myself,  listening. 

And  as  I  thought  and  thought,  an  evening  of 
spring  arose  before  my  soul — an  evening  out  of 
a  far  and  perished  time.  ...  I  had  wan- 
dered along  the  bank  of  a  steaming  river.  The 
sunset  which  shone  through  the  jagged  young 
leaves  spread  a  purple  carpet  over  the  quiet 
waters  upon  which  only  a  swift  insect  would  here 
and  there  create  circular  eddies.  At  every  step 
I  took  the  dew  sprang  up  before  me  in  gleam- 
ing pearls,  and  a  fragrance  of  wild  thyme  and 
roses  floated  through  the  air.     ... 

There  it  must  have  been  that  I  heard  this 
music  for  the  first  time. 

And  now  it  was  all  clear :  The  nightingale  was 
singing     .     .     .     the  nightingale. 

And  so  spring  has  come  to  the  upper  world. 

Perhaps  it  is  an  evening  of  May  even  as  that 
which  my  spirit  recalls. 

Blue  flowers  stand  upon  the  meadows.  .  .  . 
Goldenrod  and  lilac  mix  their  blossoms  into  gold 


THEA  309 

and  violet  wreaths.  .  .  .  Like  torn  veils  the 
delicate  flakings  of  the  buttercups  fly  through 
the  twilight.     ... 

Surely  from  the  village  sounds  the  stork's  rat- 
tle ..  .  and  surely  the  distant  strains  of  an 
accordion  are  heard.     .     .     . 

But  the  nightingale  up  there  cares  little  what 
other  music  may  be  made.  It  sobs  and  jubi- 
lates louder  and  louder,  as  if  it  knew  that  in 
the  poor  dead  man's  bosom  down  here  the 
heart  beats  once  more  stormily  against  his 
side. 

And  at  every  throb  of  that  heart  a  hot  stream 
glides  through  my  veins.  It  penetrates  farther 
and  farther  until  it  will  have  fiUed  my  whole 
body.  It  seems  to  me  as  though  I  must  cry  out 
with  yearning  and  remorse.  But  my  dull  stub- 
bornness arises  once  more :  "You  have  what  you 
desired.  So  lie  here  and  be  still,  even  though 
you  should  be  condemned  to  hear  the  nightin- 
gale's song  until  the  end  of  the  world. 

The  song  has  grown  much  softer. 

Obviously  the  human  steps  that  now  encircle 
my  grave  with  their  sullen  resonance  have  driven 
the  bird  to  a  more  distant  bush. 

"Who  may  it  be,"  I  ask  myself,  "that  thinks 
of  wandering  to  my  place  of  rest  on  an  evening 
of  May  when  the  nightingales  are  singing." 

And  I  listen  anew. 


"^^i^f'i^vir'r 


"S  ' v^  ■^■^•in;^,-^ 


310  TIIEA 

It  sounds  almost  as  though  some  one  up  there 
were  weeping. 

Did  I  not  go  my  earthly  road  lonely  and  im- 
loved :  Did  1  not  die  in  the  house  of  a  stranger? 
Was  I  not  huddled  away  in  the  eartli  hy  strang- 
ers ?    Who  is  it  that  comes  to  weep  at  my  grave  ? 

And  eacli  one  of  the  tears  that  is  shed  above 
there  falls  glowing  upon  my  breast.     .     .     . 

And  my  breast  rises  in  a  convulsive  struggle 
but  the  cofRn  lid  pushes  it  back.  I  strain  my 
head  against  the  wood  to  burst  it,  but  it  lies  upon 
me  like  a  mountain.  Mv  body  seems  to  burn. 
To  protect  it  I  burrow  in  the  saw-dust  which 
fills  mouth  and  eyes  with  its  biting  chaff. 

I  try  to  cry  out  but  my  throat  is  paralysed. 

I  want  to  pray  but  instead  of  thoughts  the 
lightnings  of  madness  shoot  through  my 
brain. 

I  feel  only  one  thing  that  threatens  to  dissolve 
all  my  body  into  a  stream  of  flame  and  that  pene- 
trates my  whole  being  with  immeasurable  might : 
"I  must  live     .     .     .     live     .     .     .!" 

There,  in  my  sorest  need,  I  think  of  the  faery 
who  upon  mj^  desire  brought  me  by  magic  to  my 
grave. 

"Thea,  I  beseech  you.  I  have  sinned  against 
the  world  and  myself.  It  was  cowardly  and 
slothful  to  doubt  of  life  so  long  as  a  spark  of 
life  and  power  glowed  in  my  veins.    Let  me  arise. 


THEA  311 

I  beseech  you,  from  the  torments  of  hell — let  me 
arise! 

And  behold :  the  boards  of  the  coffin  fall  from 
me  like  a  wornout  garment.  The  earth  rolls 
down  on  both  sides  of  me  and  unites  beneath  me 
in  order  to  raise  my  body. 

I  open  my  eyes  and  perceive  myself  to  be 
lying  in  dark  grass.  Through  the  bent  limbs 
of  trees  the  grave  stars  look  down  upon  me.  The 
black  crosses  stand  in  the  evening  glow,  and  past 
the  railings  of  grave-plots  my  eyes  blink  out 
into  the  blossoming  world. 

The  crickets  chirp  about  me  in  the  grass,  and 
the  nightingale  begins  to  sing  anew. 

Half  dazed  I  pull  myself  together. 

Waves  of  fragrance  and  melting  shadows  ex- 
tend into  the  distance. 

Suddenly  I  see  next  to  me  on  the  grave  mound 
a  crouching  gray  figure.  Between  a  veil  tossed 
back  I  see  a  countenance,  pallid  and  lovely,  with 
smooth  dark  hair  and  a  madonna-like  face. 
About  the  softly  smiling  mouth  is  an  expression 
of  gentle  loftiness  such  as  is  seen  in  those  mar- 
tyrs who  joyfully  bleed  to  death  from  the  mighti- 
ness of  their  love. 

Her  eyes  look  down  upon  me  in  smiling  peace, 
clear  and  soulful,  the  measure  of  all  goodness, 
the  mirror  of  all  beauty. 

I  know  the  dark  gleam  of  those  eyes,  I  know 


812  THEA 

that  gray,  soft  veil,  I  know  that  poor  sick  hand, 
white  as  a  hlossom,  that  leans  upon  a  crutch. 

It  is  she,  my  faery,  whose  tears  have  awak- 
ened  nic  from  the  dead. 

All  my  defiance  vanishes. 

I  lie  upon  the  earth  before  her  and  kiss  the 
hem  of  her  garment. 

And  she  inclines  her  head  and  stretches  her 
hand  out  to  me. 

With  the  help  of  that  hand  I  arise. 

Holding  this  poor,  sick  hand,  I  stride  joy- 
fullv  back  into  life. 


yi. 

I  SOUGHT  my  faery  and  I  found  her  not. 

I  sought  her  upon  the  flowery  fields  of  the 
South  and  on  the  ragged  moors  of  the  North- 
land; in  the  eternal  snow  of  Alpine  ridges  and 
in  the  black  folds  of  the  nether  earth;  in  the 
iridescent  glitter  of  the  boulevard  and  in  the 
sounding  desolation  of  the  sea.  .  .  .  And  I 
found  her  not. 

I  sought  her  amid  the  tobacco  smoke  and  the 
cheap  applause  of  popular  assemblies  and  on 
the  vanity  fair  of  the  professional  social  patron; 
in  the  brilliance  of  glittering  feasts  I  sought  her 
and  in  the  twilit  silence  of  domestic  comfort. 
.     .     .     And  I  found  her  not. 

My  eye  thirsted  for  the  sight  of  her  but  in 
my  memory  there  was  no  mark  by  which  I  could 
have  recognised  her.  Each  image  of  her  was 
confused  and  obliterated  by  the  screaming  col- 
ours of  a  new  epoch. 

Good  and  evil  in  a  thousand  shapes  had  come 
between  me  and  my  faery.  And  the  evil  had 
grown  into  good  for  me,  the  good  into  evil. 

But  the  sum  of  evil  was  greater  than  the  sum 

313 


814  THE  A 

of  good.  I  bent  low  under  the  burden,  and  for 
a  long  space  my  eyes  saw  nothing  but  the  ground 
to  which  I  clung. 

And  therefore  did  I  need  my  faery. 

I  needed  her  as  a  slave  needs  liberation,  as  the 
master  needs  a  higher  master,  as  the  man  of  faith 
needs  heaven. 

In  her  I  sought  my  resurrection,  my  strength 
to  live,  my  defiant  illusion. 

And  therefore  was  I  famished  for  her. 

My  ear  listened  to  all  the  confusing  noises  that 
were  about  me,  but  the  voice  of  my  faery  was 
not  among  them.  My  hand  groped  after  alien 
hands,  but  the  faery  hand  was  not  among  them. 
Nor  would  I  have  recognised  it. 

And  then  I  went  in  quest  of  her  to  all  the 
ends  of  the  earth. 

First  I  went  to  a  philosopher. 

"You  know  everything,  wise  man,"  I  said, 
"can  you  tell  me  how  I  may  find  my  faery 
again  f 

The  philosopher  put  the  tips  of  his  five  out- 
stretched fingers  against  his  vaulted  forehead 
and,  having  meditated  a  while,  said:  "You 
must  seek,  through  pure  intuition,  to  grasp  all 
the  conceptual  essence  of  the  being  of  the  object 
sought  for.  Therefore  withdraw  into  yourself 
and  listen  to  the  voice  of  your  mind." 


THEA  315 

I  did  as  I  was  told.  But  the  rushing  of  the 
blood  in  the  shells  of  my  ears  affrighted  me.  It 
drowned  every  other  voice. 

Next  I  went  to  a  very  clever  physician  and 
asked  him  the  same  question. 

The  physician  who  was  about  to  invent  an 
artifically  digested  porridge  in  order  to  save  the 
modern  stomach  any  exertion,  let  his  spoon  fall 
for  a  moment  and  said;  "You  must  take  only 
such  foods  as  will  tend  to  add  phosphorous  mat- 
ter to  the  brain.  The  answer  to  your  question 
will  then  come  of  itself." 

I  followed  his  directions  but  instead  of  my 
faery  a  number  of  confusing  images  presented 
themselves.  I  saw  in  the  hearts  of  those  who 
were  about  me  faery  gardens  and  infernos, 
deserts  and  turnip  fields ;  I  saw  a  conucally  hop- 
ping rainworm  who  was  nibbling  at  a  graceful 
centipede;  I  saw  a  world  in  which  darkness  was 
lord.  I  saw  much  else  and  was  frightened  at 
the  images. 

Then  I  went  to  a  clergyman  and  put  my  ques- 
tion to  him. 

The  pious  man  comfortably  lit  his  pipe  and 
said:  "You  will  find  no  faeries  mentioned  in  the 
catechism,  my  friend.  Hence  there  are  none, 
and  it  is  sin  to  seek  them.  But  perhaps  you  can 
help  me  bring  back  the  devil  into  the  world,  the 
old,  authentic  devil  with  tail  and  horns  and  sul- 


I": 


816  THEA 


phurous  stench.  He  really  exists  and  we  need 
him." 

After  I  had  made  inquiry  of  a  learned  jurist 
who  advised  me  to  have  my  faery  located  by  the 
police,  I  went  to  one  of  my  colleagues,  a  poet 
of  the  classic  school. 

I  found  him  clad  in  a  red  silk  dressing  gown, 
a  wet  handkerchief  tied  around  his  forehead.  Its 
purpose  was  to  keep  his  all  too  stormy  wealth 
of  inspiration  in  check.  Before  him  on  the  table 
stood  a  glassful  of  Malaga  wine  and  a  silver  sal- 
yer  full  of  pomegranates  and  grapes.  The 
grapes  were  made  of  glass  and  the  pomegran- 
ates of  soap.  But  the  contemplation  of  them 
was  meant  to  heighten  his  mood.  Near  him, 
nailed  to  the  floor,  stood  a  golden  harp  on  which 
was  hung  a  laurel  wreath  and  a  nightcap. 

Timidly  I  put  my  question  and  the  honoured 
master  spoke:  "The  muse,  my  worthy  friend — 
ask  the  muse.  Ask  the  muse  who  leads  us  poor 
children  of  the  dust  into  the  divine  sanctuary; 
carried  aloft  by  whose  wings  into  the  heights  of 
ether  we  feel  truly  human — ask  her!" 

As  it  would  have  been  necessary  for  me,  first 
of  all,  to  look  up  this  unknown  lady,  I  went  to 
another  colleague — one  of  the  modern  seekers 
of  truth. 

I  found  him  at  his  desk  peering  through  a 
microscope  at  a  dying  flee  which  he  was  studying 


THE  A  317 

carefully.  He  noted  each  of  its  movements 
upon  the  slips  of  paper  from  which  he  later  con- 
structed his  works.  Next  to  him  stood  some 
bread  and  cheese,  a  little  bottle  full  of  ether  and 
SL  box  of  powders. 

When  I  had  explained  my  business  he  grew 
very  angry. 

"Man,  don't  bother  me  with  such  rot!"  he 
cried.  "Faeries  and  elves  and  ideas  and  the 
devil  knows  what — that's  all  played  out.  That's 
worse  than  iambics.  Go  hang,  you  idiot,  and 
don't  disturb  me." 

Sad  at  seeing  myself  and  my  faery  so  con- 
temned, I  crept  away  and  went  to  one  of  those 
modern  artists  in  life,  who  had  tasted  with 
epicurean  fineness  all  the  esctasies  and  sorrows 
of  earthly  life  in  order  to  broaden  his  person- 
ality. ...  I  hoped  that  he  would  under- 
stand me,  too. 

I  found  him  lying  on  a  chaise  longue, 
smoking  a  cigarette,  and  turning  the  leaves  of  a 
French  novel.  It  was  La-has  by  Huysmans, 
and  he  didn't  even  cut  the  leaves,  being  too 
lazy. 

He  heard  my  question  with  an  obliging  smile. 
*'Dear  friend,  let's  be  honest.  The  thing  is  sim- 
ple. A  faery  is  a  woman.  That  is  certain. 
Well,  take  up  with  every  woman  that  runs  into 
your  arms.    Love  them  all — one  after  another. 


ifT-^'T^w-^^^vrra*^  f'T'^f  "7 


ww^JAVJlWPIl.'II.MUiPipiWfpifi 


818  THEA 

You'll  be  sure  then  to  hit  upon  your  faery  some 
dav." 

As  I  feared  that  to  follow  this  advice  I  would 
have  to  waste  the  better  part  of  my  life  and  all 
my  conscience,  I  chose  a  last  and  desperate 
method  and  went  to  a  magician. 

If  Manfred  had  forced  Astarte  back  into  be- 
ing, though  only  for  a  fleeting  moment,  why 
could  I  not  do  the  same  with  the  dear  ruler  of 
my  higher  will  ? 

I  found  a  dignified  man  with  the  eyes  of  an 
enthusiast  and  filthy  locks.  He  was  badl)^  in 
need  of  a  change  of  linen.  And  so  I  had  every 
reason  to  consider  him  an  idealist. 

He  talked  a  good  real  of  "Karma,"  of  "ma- 
terialisations" and  of  the  "plurality  of  spheres." 
He  used  many  other  strange  words  by  means  of 
which  he  made  it  clear  to  me  that  my  faery  would 
reveal  herself  to  me  only  by  his  help. 

With  beating  heart  I  entered  a  dark  room  at 
the  appointed  hour.    The  magician  led  me  in. 

A  soft,  mysterious  music  floated  toward  me.  I 
was  left  alone,  pressed  to  the  door,  awaiting  the 
things  that  were  to  come  in  breathless  fear. 

Suddenly,  as  I  was  waiting  in  the  darkness,  a 
gleaming,  bluish  needle  protruded  from  the  floor. 
It  grew  to  rings  and  became  a  snake  which 
breathed  forth  flames  and  dissolved  into 
flame.    .    .     . 


THE  A  319 

And  the  tongues  of  these  flames  played  on  all 
sides  and  filially  parted  in  curves  like  the  leaves 
of  an  opening  lotos  flower,  out  of  whose  calix 
white  veils  arose  slowly,  very  slowly,  and  be- 
came as  they  glided  upward  the  garments  of  a 
woman  who  looked  at  me,  who  was  lashed  by 
fear,  with  sightless  eyes. 

"Are  you  Thea?"  I  asked  trembling. 

The  veils  inclined  in  affirmation. 

"Where  do  you  dwell?" 

The  veils  waved,  shaken  by  the  trembling 
limbs. 

"Ask  me  after  other  things,"  a  muffled  voice 
said. 

"Why  do  you  no  longer  appear  to  me?" 

"I  may  not." 

"Who  hinders  you?" 

"You."     .     .     . 

"By  what?    Am  I  imworthy  of  you?" 

"Yes." 

In  deep  contrition  I  was  about  to  fall  at  her 
feet.  But,  coming  nearer,  I  perceived  that  my 
faery's  breath  smelled  of  onions. 

This  circumstance  sobered  me  a  bit,  for  I  don't 
like  onions. 

I  knocked  at  the  locked  door,  paid  my  magi- 
cian what  I  owed  him  and  went  my  way. 

From  now  on  all  hope  of  ever  seeing  her  again 
vanished.    But  my  soul  cried  out  after  her. 


320  THE  A 

And  the  world  receded  from  me.  Its  figures 
dislimned  into  things  that  have  been,  its 
noise  did  not  thunder  at  my  threshold. 
A  solitariness  half  voluntary  and  half  en- 
forced dragged  its  steps  through  my 
house.  Only  a  few,  the  intimates  of  my  heart 
and  brothers  of  my  blood,  surrounded  my 
life  with  peace  and  kept  watch  without  my 
doors. 

It  was  a  late  afternoon  near  Advent  Sunday. 

But  no  message  of  Christmas  came  to  my 
yearning  soul. 

Somewhere,  like  a  discarded  toy,  lay  amid  rub- 
bish the  motive  power  of  my  passions.  My  heart 
was  dumb,  my  hand  nerveless,  and  even  need — 
that  last  incentive — had  slackened  to  a  wild 
memory. 

The  world  was  white  with  frost.  .  .  .  The 
dust  of  ice  and  the  rain  of  star-light  filled  the 
world  .  .  .  cloths  of  glittering  white  cov- 
ered the  plains.  .  .  .  The  bare  twigs  of  the 
trees  stretched  upwards  like  staves  of  coral.  .  .  . 
The  fir  trees  trembled  like  spun  glass. 

A  red  sunset  spread  its  reflection  over  all. 
But  the  sunset  itself  was  poverty  stricken.  No 
purple  lights,  no  gleam  of  seven  colours  warmed 
the  whiteness  of  the  world.  Not  like  the  gentle 
farewell  of  the  sun  but  cruel  as  the  threat  of 


THEA  821 

paralysing  night  did  the  bloody  stripe  stare 
through  my  window. 

It  is  the  hour  of  afternoon  tea.  The  regula- 
tions of  the  house  demand  that. 

Grayish  blue  steam  whirls  up  to  the  shadowed 
ceiling  and  moistens  with  faUing  drops  the 
rounded  silver  of  the  tea  urn. 

The  bell  rings. 

From  the  housekeeper's  rooms  floats  an  odour 
of  fresh  baked  breads.  They  are  having  a  feast 
there.  Perhaps  they  mean  to  prepare  one  for 
the  master,  too, 

A  new  book  that  has  come  a  great  distance  to- 
day is  in  my  hand. 

I  read.  Another  one  has  made  the  great  dis- 
covery that  the  world  begins  with  him. 

Ah,  did  it  not  once  begin  with  me,  too? 

To  be  young,  to  be  young!  Ah,  even  if  one 
suffers  need — only  to  be  young! 

But  who,  after  all,  would  care  to  retrace  the 
difficult  road? 

Perhaps  you,  O  woman  at  my  side? 

I  would  wager  that  even  you  would  not. 

And  I  raise  a  questioning  glance  thou^  I 
know  her  to  be  far  .  .  .  and  who  stands  be- 
hind the  kettle,  framed  by  the  rising  of  the  bluish 
steam? 

Ah  child,  have  I  not  seen  you  often — ^you  with 
the  brownish  locks  and  the  dark  lashes  over  blue 


822  THEA 

eyes  .  .  .  you  with  the  bird-like  twitter  in 
the  throbbing  whiteness  of  your  throat,  and  the 
light-hearted  step? 

And  yet,  did  I  ever  see  you?  Did  I  ever  see 
that  look  which  surrounds  me  with  its  ripe  wis- 
dom and  guesses  the  secrets  of  my  heart?  Did 
I  ever  see  that  mouth  so  rich  and  firm  at  once 
which  smiles  upon  me  full  of  reticent  consolation 
and  alluring  comprehension? 

Who  are  you,  child,  that  you  dare  to  look  me 
through  and  through,  as  though  I  had  laid  my 
confidence  at  your  feet?  Who  are  you  that  you 
dare  to  descend  wingless  into  the  abysms  of  my 
soul,  that  you  can  smile  away  my  torture  and 
my  suffocation? 

Why  did  you  not  come  earlier  in  your  au- 
thentic form?  Why  did  you  not  come  as  all  that 
which  you  are  to  me  and  will  be  from  this  hour 
on? 

Why  do  you  hide  yourself  in  the  mist  which 
renders  my  recognition  turbid  and  shadows  your 
outlines  ? 

Come  to  me,  for  you  are  she  whom  I  seek,  for 
whom  my  heart's  blood  yearns  in  order  to  flow 
as  sacrifice  and  triumph! 

You  are  the  faery  who  clarifies  my  eye  and 
steels  my  will,  who  brings  to  me  upon  her  young 
hands  my  own  youth! 


*i 


THEA  323 

Come  to  me  and  do  not  leave  me  again  as  you 
have  so  often  left  me! 

I  start  up  to  stretch  out  my  arms  to  her  and 
see  how  her  glance  becomes  estranged  and  her 
smile  as  of  stone.  As  one  who  is  asleep  with 
open  eyes,  thus  she  stands  there  and  stares  past 
me. 

I  try  to  find  her,  to  clasp  her,  to  force  her 
spirit  to  see  me.  Without  repulsing  me  she 
glides  softly  from  me.  .  .  .  The  walls  open. 
.  .  .  The  stones  of  the  stairs  break.  .  .  . 
We  flee  out  into  the  wintry  silence.     .     .     . 

She  glides  before  me  over  the  pallid  velvet  of 
the  road  .  .  .  over  the  tinkling  glass  of  the 
frozen  heath  .  .  .  through  the  glittering 
boughs.    She  smiles — for  whom? 

The  hilly  fields,  hardened  by  the  frost,  the 
bushes  scattering  ice — everjrthing  obstructs  my 
way.    I  break  through  and  follow  her. 

But  she  glides  on  before  me,  scarcely  a  foot 
above  the  ground,  but  farther,  farther  .  .  . 
over  the  broken  earth,  down  the  precipice  .  .  . 
to  the  lake  whose  bluish  surface  of  new  ice  melts 
in  the  distance  into  the  afterglow. 

Now  she  hangs  over  the  bank  like  a  cloud  of 
smoke,  and  the  wind  that  blows  upon  my  back, 
raises  the  edges  of  her  dress  like  triangular  pen- 
nants. 


324  THEA 

"Stay,  Thea.  ...  I  cannot  follow  you 
across  the  lakel  .  .  .  The  water  will  not  up- 
bear a  mortal."     .     .     . 

But  the  rising  wind  pushes  her  irresistibly 
on. 

Now  I  stand  as  the  edge  of  the  lake.  The 
thin  ice  forces  upward  great  hollow  bubbles.  .  .  . 

Will  it  suffer  my  groping  feet  ?  Will  it  break 
and  whelm  me  in  brackish  water  and  morass? 

There  is  no  room  for  hesitation.  For  already 
the  wind  is  sweeping  her  afar. 

And  I  venture  out  upon  the  glassy  floor  which 
is  no  floor  at  all,  but  which  a  brief  frost  threw 
as  a  deceptive  mirror  across  the  deep. 

It  bears  me  up  for  five  paces,  for  six,  for  ten. 
Then  suddenly  the  cry  of  harps  is  in  my  ear 
and  something  like  an  earthquake  quivers 
through  my  limbs.  And  this  sound  grows  into 
a  mighty  crunching  and  waxes  into  thunder 
which  sounds  afar  and  returns  from  the  distance 
in  echoing  detonation. 

But  at  my  left  hand  glitters  a  cleft  which  fur- 
rows the  ice  with  manicoloured  splinters  and 
runs  from  me  into  the  invisible. 

What  is  to  be  done?    On    ...    on    ..    .1 

And  again  thq  harps  cry  out  and  a  great 
rattling  flies  forth  and  returns  as  thunder.  And 
again  a  great  cleft  opens  its  brilliant  hues  at  my 
side. 


THEA  325 

On,  on  ...  to  seek  her  smiling,  even 
though  the  smile  is  not  for  me.  It  wiU  be  for 
me  if  only  I  can  grasp  the  hem  of  her  garment. 

A  third  cleft  opens;  a  fourth  crosses  it,  unit- 
ing it  to  the  first. 

I  must  cross.  But  I  dare  not  jump,  for  the 
ice  must  not  crumble  lest  an  abysm  open  at  my 
feet. 

It  is  no  longer  a  sheet  of  ice  upon  which  I 
travel — it  is  a  net-work  of  clefts.  Between  than 
lies  something  blue  and  all  but  invisible  that 
bears  me  by  the  merest  chance.  I  can  see  the 
tangled  water  grasses  wind  about  and  the  pol- 
ished fishes  dart  whom  my  body  will  feed  un- 
less a  miracle  happens. 

Lit  by  the  gathering  afterglow  a  plain  of  fire 
stretches  out  before  me,  and  far  on  the  horizon 
the  saving  shore  looms  dark. 

Farther    .     .     .     farther! 

Sinister  and  deceptive  springs  arise  to  my 
right  and  left  and  hurl  their  waters  across  my 
path.  ...  A  soft  gurgling  is  heard  and  at 
last  drowns  the  resonant  sound  of  thunder. 

Farther,  farther.  .  .  .  Mere  life  is  at 
stake. 

There  in  the  distance  a  cloud  dislimns  which 
but  now  lured  me  to  death  with  its  girlish  smile. 
What  do  I  care  now? 

The  struggle  endures  for  eternities. 


326  THEA 

The  wind  drives  me  on.  I  avoid  the  clefts, 
wade  through  the  springs;  I  measure  the  dis- 
tances, for  now  I  have  to  jump.  .  .  .  The 
depths  are  yawning  about  me. 

The  ice  under  my  feet  begins  to  rock.  It 
rocks  like  a  cradle,  heaving  and  falling  at  every 
step.  ...  It  would  be  a  charming  game 
were  it  not  a  game  with  death 

My  breath  comes  flying  .  .  .  my  heart- 
beats throttle  me  .  .  .  sparks  quiver  before 
my  eyes. 

Let  me  rock  .  .  .  rock  .  .  .  rock 
back  to  the  dark  sources  of  being. 

A  springing  fountain,  higher  than  all  the 
others,  hisses  up  before  me.  .  .  .  Edges  and 
clods  rise  into  points.     .     .     . 

One  spring  .  .  .  the  last  of  all  .  .  . 
hopeless  .  .  .  inspired  by  the  desperate  will 
to  live.     ... 

Ah,  what  is  that? 

Is  that  not  the  goodly  earth  beneath  my  feet 
— the  black,  hard,  stable  earth? 

It  is  but  a  tiny  islet  formed  of  frozen  mud 
and  roots;  it  is  scarcely  two  paces  across,  but 
large  enough  to  give  security  to  my  sinking 
body. 

I  am  ashore,  saved,  for  only  a  few  arm  lengths 
from  me  arises  the  reedy  line  of  the  shore. 

A  drove  of  wild  ducks  rises  in  diagonal  flight. 


THEA  327 

•  .  .  Purple  radiance  pours  through  the 
twigs  of  trees.  .  .  .  From  nocturnal  heav- 
ens the  first  stars  shine  upon  me. 

The  ghostly  game  is  over!  The  faery  hunt  is 
as  an  end. 

One  truth  I  realise:  He  who  has  firm  ground 
under  his  feet  needs  no  faeries. 

And  serenely  I  stride  into  the  sunset  world. 


